“Stow your knife, boy,” grunted the Arcanist. “Fighting lessons are over for today.”
Rolan nodded. He could tell by Luc’s expression that he was thinking of going hunting. Which would mean Rolan would have to spend the rest of the day locked in the house, tediously copying down the letterAuntil his eyes crossed. Seized with a notion to stop the man, Rolan cast about for some excuse that might convince him to stay and continue his lessons.
Then he saw the perfect thing.
“Wait!” he cried, running toward the wobbly pole. “You promised to teach me the trick to this thing, remember? Well. Do you keep your promises or not?”
The Arcanist winced, his gaze slipping away to the woods again.
Rolan jumped up onto the pole before Luc could utter some reason to get away. He wobbled precariously on the ball of his left foot for three seconds before tumbling hard onto his stomach, right at Luc’s feet.
Groaning, Rolan spat dirt and glared at the Arcanist, who watched him with a mightily unimpressed expression.
“Well?” Rolan demanded, rolling over. “Don’t just stand there all judgmental. What’s the trick to it?”
Sighing, the Arcanist gestured at Rolan to get up. He did, dusting his pants and huffing, wishing he’d never added this stupidexercise to his lessons. What had he been thinking? There was no point to this. It wouldn’t impress anyone. He could imagine Anaya now, even if he did manage to balance on the pole, clapping her hands mockingly.
Ohh, Rolan, wow, how special and brave you are—standing on one leg!
Flushing, Rolan turned away. “Forget it. I don’t care any—”
“First of all,” Luc rumbled, “you must shut your eyes.”
“I tried that already,” Rolan complained.
“Second of all,” the Arcanist continued, “you must imagine you are sinking, heavy and slow, into a great black pit. A pit that stretches all the way down to the center of the world.”
Rolan grimaced. “Ugh. I’ve fallen into your pits before. Can’t I imagine somethingnice, like snuggling into a giant pie? Or a warm loaf of bread?”
The Arcanist ignored him, continuing, “Every time you think of anything—any thought at all—you stop sinking and rise instead. Every thought is a rope, tethering you to the surface. You must cut the ropes. Let go of everything that would drag you up.” Luc’s voice was so even, and so serious, that Rolan couldn’t help but be intrigued. He waited, dubious but silent.
“Focus on falling. And when you can reach the bottom, and can tell me what waits at the center of the world,” Luc said, “then you will know the trick.”
“What waits at the center of the world? So it’s all about some dumb riddle? What’s thepoint?” Rolan burst out.And why do I care so much about it?he asked himself inwardly. The pole trick was like a seed in his teeth. He just couldn’t stop worrying at it until it madesense. “You want me to stand on one leg like a blasted goose, pretending I’m falling down a hole, just to find out what’s at the bottom? How will I even know when I’ve found it?”
“Ifyou find the answer,” replied Luc, “you will know.”
Rolan ground his teeth together. He knew that tone Luc was using. It was the sort of voice Hoff used when he said, “ifyou ever straighten yourself out…” and that Evaine used when she said, “ifyou would just go to school…” and that Anaya used when she said, “ifyou would just stop acting like an idiot for five minutes…”
It was a familiar blend of disdain and disbelief, and it cut Rolan like a knife.
It was a tone that really meant:if you could… but we both know you can’t.
Luc didn’t believe Rolan could solve his stupid riddle.
Which meant Rolan had no choice but to prove him wrong.
- CHAPTER 15 -TRAINING
Summer stretched on, and Rolan trained with dagger and sword, bow and fists. Every morning while Luc tended the garden and cleaned the barn, Rolan balanced atop the wobbly pole and imagined himself sinking into a black pit. And every morning he ended up on his butt in the mud, punching the earth in frustration at yet another failure.What waits at the center of the world?It was probably some sort of trick answer, likenothingoreverythingorlove. Eugh. The senseless question ate at him, keeping him up at night. It whispered in his ear as he practiced his other lessons. And when it came to his other lessons, Luc was ruthless in his routine.
Hot, violent storms swept in from the west, lashing the Arcanist’s house with rain and thunder, and Rolan learned how to write his name.
The sun crisped the grass and apples ripened in the Arcanist’s small orchard, and Rolan began to add double-digit numbers, then triple-digit. He learned how to subtract and multiply, divide and compare. The numbers didn’t come as easily as the letters did, but he applied himself eagerly, because whenever he got a lesson right, Luc would tell him another story of a Cryptic he’d defeated.
The Arcanist still went hunting at night, alone, but his trips grew less frequent. Rolan had asked him if he’d hunted down the big Cryptic they’d seen off in the distant forest, but Luc had only shaken his head and changed the subject. More and more he opted to stay in, pacing the length of the house and listening as Rolan stumbled through the first pages of the Arcane Histories. These were a set of books so massive, Rolan had nearly wept when the Arcanist first pulled them down from the loft. When he’d opened them, dust had fallen out.
But despite their intimidating size, they wereinteresting, which was a thing Rolan hadn’t known a book could be. Begrudgingly, he’d fallen under their spell. He had been desperate for Arcane knowledge all these weeks, and who knew that the whole time, everything he could have ever wanted to know had been tucked inside these books, ten feet over his head? Now their secrets opened to him like locks, his mind working to pick apart the letters and connect the sounds and discover the treasure of information they hid.
