Swallowing, Rolan took out one of his daggers. It and its mate, sheathed on his other hip, were his two prized possessions. Luc had given them to him a week into his training.
“Cryptics have no heart,” Luc said. “No organs. There’s no place you can strike which would constitute a killing blow, except at its very core, called the ‘aleth.’?” With his own dagger, Luc tapped the Cryptic’s belly, where a dark double spiral swirled like a tattoo on its shell-like exoskeleton. It matched the symbol etched on all Luc’s weapons and Rolan’s daggers.
Carefully, Rolan knelt by the monster, studying it. The body was round, shaped like an illustration in one of Luc’s books. What had that creature been called?
A crab?
Its eyes wriggled atop stalks that sprouted along its shell. He grimaced as they fixed on him. The Cryptic’s mouth was small, bristling with fangs. It gnashed them angrily. Rolan thought back to the classification chart in the Arcane Histories which sorted Cryptics into classes by their size, with Rank Ones being the smallest and Rank Fives the largest. This one was bigger than a cat, but smaller than a goat, which made it a Rank Two, somewhere between three to twelve months old.
“Find the center,” said Luc softly. “Crack the core.”
Rolan had to draw a few deep breaths before he found the nerve. When he finally moved, his blow was swift and sure, and he felt a warm flush of pride as his dagger buried into the monster’s core, at the center of its spiraling mark. The aleth.
“Good,” said Luc.
With a raspy shriek, the Cryptic died. Or rather, itdeliquesced, which was the official word he’d learned from the Arcanist books. Since Cryptics weren’t actually living, they couldn’t actually die. But all the same, itlookedlike dying. At least, until the monster’s body vanished, turning to blue smoke that faded in the air.
Animals didn’t die likethat.
Pulling his dagger back, Rolan stared at the piece it left behind.
A single pincer, pulsing with pale light, lay on the forest floor.
“You can touch it,” Luc said. “It won’t hurt you.”
Grimacing, Rolan picked up the pincer. It felt hard and cool on his palm. Mist rolled over his fingers and trickled to the ground, leaving behind that oily feeling he got when he handled the Cryptic parts in Luc’s chest.
“Remember what it’s called?” Luc asked.
Rolan dredged the word up from his memory. He had been learning so many new things lately, sometimes they jumbled together and seemed lost. But he usually found them again if he concentrated. “Arelic.”
“Right.”
Relics were the parts Cryptics left behind when they died. They were the seed of the creature, the source of its malevolent existence.
And inside the relic…
Well, Rolan still wasn’t sure about that part. He’d seen Luc break other relics, the way he had the talon. He’d seen the way blue mist poured from the broken pieces and soaked into the Arcanist’s blades. But he still wasn’t sure what the stuffwas. The books talked about it as if the person reading already knew the answer, the stories ending once the Cryptic was dead. They didn’t say much about what followed, and Luc had not been forthcoming either.
Rolan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Looking up at the Arcanist, he asked, “Can I… break it?”
Luc met his eyes and, gravely, nodded once.
Rolan knew then this was why his master had brought him out here. He was finally giving him the answer he’d been seeking, letting Rolan discover the mysterious power of the relics for himself.
Carefully, Rolan placed the tip of his dagger on the pincer. A moment of hesitation. Then he pushed down forcefully, and the relic shattered. Blue mist swirled up the blade, the steel soaking it up like a sponge. The pincer turned to smoke and was gone, but the dagger glowed softly blue, just like Luc’s sword sometimes did.
“It’s called ‘Arcana,’?” said Luc. “The power of a secret. It is the source of the Cryptic’s existence and power.”
“Arcana… as inArcanist.” Rolan lifted his dagger. The motion made it flare brighter, just like the relic had. When he raised it to his ear, he could hear a sound like whispering, the words—if they were words at all—unintelligible. “It’s magic, isn’t it?”
Luc nodded. “It can be stored in metal until we need to use it. Daggers, swords, spear tips. Anything marked with the aleth, the symbol of truth.” He tapped the double spiral carved into Rolan’s dagger. “Arcanists who master the flow of Arcana within their bodies can even store it in certain tattoos.”
Rolan’s eyes snapped to the tattoos swirling on the Arcanist’s neck. Luc’s chest rose as he drew in a breath, and when he did, the tattoos began to faintly glow.
“Whoa,” Rolan whispered. “CanIget a—”
“No,” said Luc firmly.
