He finally found her, curled into a ball with her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from the stampeding crowd. He tried to reach her, but the press of the bodies around him pushed him back. Desperation clawed at his chest. She would be crushed, her head stomped in—
Rolan gripped the hilt of his dagger and slammed his eyes shut, reaching for the Hollow Path. Bodies collided with him, knocking him about and breaking his concentration, but he refused to open his eyes until he found that truthforsaken apple hanging in the dark. When he did, out of desperation or sheer stubbornness, he breathed in just a tiny thread of Arcana, the last of the power the blade had absorbed from his first Cryptic kill. It surged through him in a silent roar, and he pushed forward again.
This time, the people around him parted like lambs, his arms shoving aside adults three times his size with ease.
“Anaya!”
Grabbing her, Rolan heaved her up and pushed her ahead of him, darting for an opening.
Only to feel a hand wrap around his neck.
“It’s him!” One of the farmer’s sons had Rolan collared, and shook him roughly. “It’s that monster’s apprentice!”
Angry glares turned Rolan’s way. He struggled, but the strength he’d drawn from his dagger was already fading.
“His eyes!” someone else shouted. “Look at his eyes! He’s half Cryptic too!”
The farmer’s son began to squeeze Rolan’s neck tighter, but then Anaya jumped in front of them and bit the man on the arm. He cried out, more surprised than hurt, but he let go of Rolan.
“Come on!” Anaya cried, grabbing his hand and yanking him along. The farmer’s son tried to give chase, but a guard clobbered him with the hilt of his sword, drawing his attention away.
Rolan and Anaya burst out of the melee and down the street, panting and bruised.
“Are you okay?” Rolan asked.
“Just keep running!”
They stumbled onward until the sound of the riot faded behind them and the apothecary was in sight. After spilling inside, Anaya locked the door. Then she sagged against it, pushing back her sweaty curls.
“That was close!” Rolan gasped out.
“Thanks for saving me,” Anaya said.
“Thanks for savingme. You bit that guy!”
“I did!” She giggled, though her hands were shaking. She glanced at him, the smile slipping away. “Rolan, your eyes…”
He blinked rapidly, turning his face away. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not. It happened before, during the fire. What is it?”
“I’m not supposed to…” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I can’t talk about it, Anaya. I’m sorry.”
She watched him for a long moment, and he hated the way the ground seemed to stretch between them, as if a vast distance had pushed them apart. He knew if she pressed him, he would tell her the truth. Anything she wanted to know, all the things he’d learned in the Arcane Histories, he would tell her. If she pressed him.
But then Anaya pushed off the door, saying nothing more about it.
“Evaine’s going to be mad about the butter,” she sighed.
“Butter!” Rolan choked out. He followed her into the kitchen, glancing into the polished kettle on the stove. His eyes were beginning to fade, but the faint blue illumination in his pupils made him shiver. “People are rioting in the streets and you’re worried aboutbutter?”
“Well, the only other butter seller in the city is on the east side. That’s nearly an hour’s walk, andI’mthe one who has to fetch it.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe they’re blaming Luc.”
“And you,” she pointed out. “It’s getting worse out there, Rolan. There are more Cryptics about than I’ve ever heard of, because no one trusts the Listeners anymore either. They’re keeping their secrets to themselves, and there are monsters popping up all over the place.” She gazed at him, her eyes as afraid as he’d ever seen them. “Peopleare scared, and when they’re scared, they lash out. What if they come for you?”
“No one knows where I’m staying,” he replied. “Don’t worry. Luc will fix things.”
