“How is your head?” Luc asked.
Caught off guard by the question, Rolan lifted a hand to the bandage. “Better, I guess.”
“You were infected with Cryptic venom. That’s why you passed out.”
“Venom?” Rolan echoed. His stomach clenched, remembering how dizzy he’d been and the nausea he’d felt just before blacking out.
Luc nodded, settling back in his chair. His beard was damp with rain, droplets shining on the coarse black hairs. “Any scratch or bite left by a Cryptic will most likely fester with venom. If the monster’s a small one, like that which harmed you, the venom is weaker. That’s why you’re still alive. Still, if I hadn’t treated it, you’d have been plagued with fever, nightmares, and a nasty gut for days.”
Rolan shivered. “And if the Cryptic is a big one?”
“Depends on the depth of the wound, and how many you took. But a mature Cryptic’s venom can kill within hours or even minutes.”
Inevitably, Rolan’s eyes traveled over Luc’s rough face, tracing the network of white scars. His skin resembled a butcher’s block, marked by years of scrapes and cuts.
Luc raised a hand to his cheekbone, to a particularly nasty scar that stretched from the corner of his eye down to his beard. “Yes, most of these were made by Cryptics. What about yours?”
He tapped his cheek, about the same spot where the scar was on Rolan’s face. Rolan touched it automatically, feeling the tight, smooth crescent of healed skin. It seemed to twinge in response, more from memory than true pain.
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “Not a Cryptic, though. How come you’re still alive, if you’ve been poisoned so many times?”
Luc’s lips twitched, as if he were biting back a question. But then he said, “There’s a salve that counters their venom. If you can apply it in time, you usually recover.”
Rolan stood up straighter, eyes wide. “Hoff had something like that! He put it on his hands after the Cryptic scratched them.”
“Hoff had truth salve and didn’t use it on your cut?” Luc’s eyebrows bunched together like a pair of fuzzy, furious caterpillars. “He neglected to heal a person harmed by a Cryptic, under his watch?”
Rolan shrugged. “Hoff ain’t ever seenmeas a person.”
With a hiss, a dagger slithered out of Luc’s belt and into his hand. “Hoffhasn’tever seen you as a person.” He twirled the knife with causal expertise, the menacing light in his eyes making Rolan go cold.
“Yeah, that too.” Rolan dropped to the floor, lounging on the bearskin rug by the fireplace. The goat settled beside him. It seemed Luc wasn’t going to hit him after all, and Rolan began to relax. A little. He glanced at the row of daggers in Luc’s belt, and the broadsword leaning against the wall in its embossed leather sheath, and then at the great longbow hung on the back of Luc’s armchair. The man traveled with enough weapons to outfit a whole troop of guards. What had he been doing out in the dark, with no lamp?
“Why’s it calledtruth salve?” asked Rolan. “Is it magic?”
Luc grunted but didn’t reply.
“You might as well tell me,” Rolan pressed. “Otherwise you’re keeping a secret. And secrets turn into Cryptics, whichyou’llhave to fight. So why not save yourself the trouble and just answer the question?”
One of Luc’s eyebrows hoisted upward as he regarded Rolan. “Truth salveisn’t magic. It’s just a name, probably chosen becauseCryptic venom—like Cryptics themselves—is created from secrets. And with truth theoretically being the antidote to secrets… you get the idea. Anyway, as far as I know, the salve is just a mixture of vanilla, tansy, mint, and a few other herbs. You’d have to ask an apothecary for more information.”
Rolan thought of the sprig of rosemary on Hoff’s jar. “Does Evaine make your truth salve too?”
“I don’t know who makes it. I pick it up every month with my other supplies from the ducal palace. Which isn’t much. You’ll find I’m quite self-sufficient out here, growing my own food, keeping my own livestock, mending my own clothes.”
Rolan winced. That sounded a lot likechores. He hoped Luc hadn’t brought him out here to be some kind of servant. He might have rather gone to prison than do boring chores all day.
Not that he would stick around to find out. As soon as morning came, hewouldrun away.
“By the way, your horrible goat ate my boots,” said Rolan. “What’s his name, anyhow?”
“He doesn’t have one. He’s just a goat.”
“Can I name him?”
Luc just stared at him, looking perplexed.
“Thanks,” said Rolan, choosing to interpret his silence as permission. “I’ll call him Supper.”
