“Luc has secrets too,” Rolan said hollowly.
Evaine was silent for the next mile.
“I know you went back to him,” she said at last, “and I know you returned a short time later. I kept my distance because you seemed like you needed time to work things out.”
She waited, perhaps hoping he would fill in the silence with the story of his break with Luc. But he didn’t. Hecouldn’tspeak of it, not now. It all felt so silly and foolish, now that Luc’s life hung in the balance.
“Whatever happened between you,” Evaine said finally, “it didnot cause your father to move against Luc. His actions are his to bear and his alone. You arenothim, and you are not responsible for him.”
“I led them to his door!” Rolan cried. “They were going to hurt Anaya if I didn’t!”
She turned his chin with a finger so that he was forced to meet the startling green of her eyes. “Anaya is safe because ofyou, Rolan. You did what you had to do to protect her, and you did well. Do you hear me?”
“But Luc—”
“Will be as he will be. Now, come. Help me.”
Rolan turned his head and started. They’d reached the house without him noticing.
He jumped down and ran to the door. The ground around it was churned by many footprints, and the house was silent. His father and his cohort were gone, then. They might have passed them in the downpour and never even seen them.
The door was ajar, and Rolan reached to push it open, but found he couldn’t. His heart pounded in his throat. He was too afraid of what he might find inside. Better to linger here, in the rain, where at least there was still hope…
“I’ll go in first,” Evaine said. “And Rolan… take these. Keep watch, and pray you will not need them.”
Reaching into her satchel, she took out Rolan’s aleth-marked daggers, the ones she’d taken from him the day she and Anaya had found him unconscious by the river. He took them with a wordless nod, feeling numb. Then Evaine stepped around him and into the house.
Rolan rested his head against the doorframe, gripping his daggers against his chest, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Hefelt a wet muzzle nudge his hand, and with a soft cry, he crouched down to wrap his arms around Supper’s neck. The goat stood still and let Rolan cry into his coarse fur.
A few minutes later, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“He’s alive, Rolan.”
Rolan lifted his face, eyes wide. “W-what?”
But Evaine was not smiling. Her eyes held glimmering sorrow, tears of her own gathering on her lashes.
“He doesn’t have long. Come, speak with him.”
Breathing shakily, Rolan went inside and slowly approached Luc’s bed. The Arcanist lay perfectly still, one hand on his chest, the other dangling down the side of the bed. He had a fresh bandage on his chest, but it was already dark with blood.
“Rolan.” The name was little more than a sigh on Luc’s lips.
“I’m here,” Rolan whispered. Stepping closer, he made himself look fully into Luc’s face.
The Arcanist’s eyes were narrow, tired slits. They glowed softly blue with Arcana, but his usual spark was gone from them. His skin was sunken and pale where it did not glow with blue light, and Evaine had laid a cold cloth on his head to combat his fever.
“Cryptic wounds, infection, a dagger to his heart…,” Evaine said behind him. “There are too many things trying to kill him, and I cannot stop them all. He’s drawn in a lot of Arcana to fortify himself, but once it fades…”
“There must besomething!” Rolan pleaded. “The chest of relics… he needs more Arcana!”
She put her hand on his shoulder before he could run for the chest. “It will not reverse his wounds, Rolan. I know of no magic that can.”
“I’m sorry, Luc,” Rolan sobbed. He gathered up the Arcanist’s dangling hand and held it to his chest. “I didn’t want to lead them here, but they gave me no choice. I thought maybe you’d be gone, or that—that you’d fight them off. I didn’t know you’d be sick. I didn’t know…”
Letting Luc’s hand fall onto the bed, he covered his face with his hands. Guilt and sorrow gripped his heart and pulled in opposite directions, tearing it right down the middle.
Then, slowly, someone pulled his hands away.
