The Arcanist.
Rolan saw no sign of the man now, but then, he didn’t see how Luc could possibly fit into such a small room at all. This couldn’t be the man’s house. Maybe it was the goat’s.
Through the window the world was terribly dark. Rolan realized with dismay he must be outside the city. Even the worst storms couldn’t darken Crisanth. The lamps were made to withstand rain and wind, and even if one went out, there were a dozen others close enough to fill the gap with light.
But out here…
Rolan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the window. There could be hundreds of Cryptics out there, right now, just inches away through that thin glass pane, and he’d never know it.
He swallowed.
“Mr. Arcanist?” he called, his voice a strained whisper.“Luc?”
Rolan felt at his forehead again. The man must have patched him up, so that probably meant he wasn’t going to turn Rolan into Cryptic bait. Not yet, anyway.
It seemed Rolan’s plan to give Luc the slip had been a miserable flop. Which was a shame, because Rolan would have lookedspectacularif he’d pulled it off—leaping from the horse, yelling something extremely clever and heroic, just before vanishing into the city like smoke on the wind.
Instead he’d gone and fainted like an idiot, and that had ruinedthatplan.
Whyhadhe passed out? He dimly remembered falling off the horse and Luc catching him. After that, nothing.
Well. He could still run. Not tonight, not in the dark. But tomorrow. Early, at first light. He’d steal some food and start for the road. Somehow, he would sneak into Crisanth and find his father, and by this time tomorrow they’d be laughing about it over supper.
Forcing himself to his feet, Rolan tiptoed to the door. The goat watched him with its left eye while methodically chomping the sole of Rolan’s boot. Its right eye peered off in the other direction.
“Better watch out,” Rolan growled. “I happen to love goat stew. Maybe I’ll bring you back to the city with me and make a supper ofyou.”
The goat looked offensively unbothered by the threat.
Slowly, bracing himself for Cryptics or Arcanists or whatever other monsters might wait, Rolan pushed open the door. He poked his head around it and found…
No one.
The room on the other side was large, with fieldstone walls, a high, beamed ceiling, and a crackling fireplace. He saw no sign of Luc and, after a moment, worked up enough courage to start exploring. His bare feet soaked up the warmth from the hide rugs spread around. First he eagerly inspected the small kitchen nook, where jars of herbs and pickled vegetables were neatly stacked, along with slabs of salted meat he hoped weren’t Cryptic in origin. He eyed a lump of bread, not nearly as golden or tempting as Finkfloss’s, and opted to instead grab a handful of blueberries. They burst sweetly on his tongue, tasting of summer dew.
Grimly, he grabbed a silver butter knife and slipped it into his pocket. You never knew when a little knife might be useful. Especially when you woke up in a stranger’s house, in the dark, in a thunderstorm, far from home.
The rest of the room held little of interest. A large four-poster bed had to be Luc’s, covered in blankets of fur and coarse wool. In front of the stone fireplace sat a massive oak armchair, its rigid form padded with more furs. The fire was bright but burning low. It looked like no one had put a fresh log on for some time. Shivering, Rolan stepped closer to it, aware of the dark outside and the growling thunder. The goat trailed after, as if he’d savored the taste of Rolan’s boots and was now sizing up the rest of him.
After a while, Rolan went back for more blueberries.
“Where’s your owner?” Rolan asked the goat around a juicymouthful. “Did he wander off into the storm and die? That would be just my luck.”
The house was small, though its roof was high and peaked. A loft with ladder access seemed to be used as storage. The closet Rolan had awoken in was the only other room, with a small back door beside it. A huge oak door served as the house’s main entrance. Beside it, a piece of paper had been nailed to the wall. Words sprawled across it, which Rolan ignored.
Then his eyes fell on a chest set to one side of the room. It seemed ordinary enough, a plain ash wood box with iron hinges. But the fat lock on the front was intriguing. Anything worth locking uphadto be worth investigating.
Checking once more to be sure he was alone, Rolan knelt beside the chest and studied the lock. It wasn’t very sophisticated, and he silently thanked Anaya for yet another of her lessons as he used the butter knife to pry it open.
The lid swung up with a creak, and Rolan gasped.
Teeth. Claws. Scales. Feathers.Bones.
Scores of animal bits jumbled together inside the chest, like the world’s most grisly treasure. Rolan grimaced, wondering if these were the pieces left over after the Arcanist finished one of his nasty meals. Maybe hedideat Cryptics. These certainly were not parts from animals Rolan had ever seen. The teeth were too large and sharp to be bears’ or wolves’, the scales too shiny to belong to fish. They had to be Cryptic parts. Souvenirs of the most disgusting order.
“Heisa monster,” murmured Rolan, his heart beating faster.
He was just about to close the chest when one of the fangs inside shifted, disturbed by the movement of the lid. And when it did, itshimmered.
