Set in Stone, page 3
Connor examined his fist. He felt no pain. It looked undamaged, although covered in torc's blood. He slowly unclenched his fingers and shook them out. Feeling came back in a rush, an overpowering itch that made him groan with the need to tear at his own flesh. The itch subsided after a few seconds and radiated back across his body.
Before approaching the beast, Connor glanced around again to reassure himself that no one had seen what he did. He'd only ever released his Curse a couple of times. Both times he was alone, and the itch had nearly driven him mad.
The first time, he'd slammed his hand into a small tree, focusing all of his anger and despair into the blow, not caring that he'd probably break bones. His hand hadn't broken. The tree had.
He'd been so surprised the falling tree had nearly killed him. Never before had he understood the Curse's destructive power. All his life it had tormented him with crushing sickness. Now he knew the terrible truth. The Curse was trying to force him to kill.
Today it succeeded.
That itch was a harbinger of misery, a reminder of the danger he faced every day. Tomorrow could not come soon enough. He'd taken a terrible risk in waiting so long to petition for Patronage, and he was starting to wonder if he'd waited too long.
At the Sogail, those celebrating their sixteenth age-day, the Saorsa, would become near-adults. The Curse was not supposed to drive those afflicted with it beyond the bounds of their control before that age, but he was starting to wonder if perhaps the rule was not so hard and fast.
With an effort, he forced the worries aside. Tomorrow everything would be revealed, and he'd be on the path toward becoming a Guardian. Under the high lord's Patronage, somehow the terrible risk of the curse could transform to a force for good. Instead of becoming a danger to his family and perhaps his entire village, he would become their Guardian.
Connor grinned. To celebrate the announcement, he had bested the mighty torc. He could think of no better way to prove his worth to the Curse Finders, the high lord's men who would accept his petition in the name of their lord.
The itch of the Curse seemed weaker now, barely a distraction, as if appeased by the recent destruction. His best defense against it was normally to banish all thought of it, but a new thought occurred to him, one that disturbed him deeply. Without the Curse, he'd have died alone on this mountain today.
The torc twitched a final time. Connor cleared his mind through physical action. He drew his belt dagger and field-dressed the torc. Within minutes, it lay bled out, with its innards steaming in the clear morning air. Connor stayed upwind as he completed the work, and then sat back on his heels and laughed. He'd actually killed a torc.
Connor threw his head back and roared like a torc, and then grinned.
That sounded pretty good.
He could mimic nearly any animal after he'd heard it, and he planned to remember this one.
Alasdair lay six miles back beyond the far side of the saddle between mountains. After removing the long horn as proof of the kill, Connor started back. He needed to fetch a horse. Hopefully the carrion would be content to feast on its guts and leave the rest intact until he returned.
Tomorrow would be a day to remember.
Chapter 3
Connor stopped on his favorite vantage rock and rested, hands on knees, breathing hard. He'd jogged back up the pass from the north peak where he'd left the torc, covering the distance in a ground-eating lope. The noonday sun shone warm on his face as he stood and scanned the valley.
He loved the spot. To his right reared the majestic peak of Wick Tor, its high summit flanked by clouds, with the huge open pit of the quarry cut into its flanks about half a mile from where Connor rested. The pounding of hammers and chisels reached him dimly. The tempo was fast, constant, as everyone worked hard to finish early.
Those sounds taunted him, teasing him anew with the promise of the life he yearned to lead but never could. He fought down the urge to detour to the quarry, to prove he wasn't afraid. It wouldn't do any good. He didn't dare go again today and risk arousing the Curse. For some reason it hated the quarry and every time he spent any time there, its itch grew with terrifying speed.
Instead, Connor turned and forced himself to stare at the rest of the magnificent view. Beyond Quarry Road and the two deep lochs on the bluff, beyond Lord Gavin's plateau, the rest of the valley spread south, a patchwork of forest, green pastures, and square-tilled farmland with the river running through the middle of it all.
Connor knew every inch of it. He'd spent glorious summer days swimming with his friends in the Wick or hiding in the woods with Hamish as they spied on Jean and Moira. His recent hunting had honed his knowledge of the area even further.
He and Hamish had even discovered the girls' secret bathing pool recently. Protected by a dense grove of brush and hardwood, it was devilishly hard to approach quietly. They'd finally managed it, but instead of spying the girls, they'd seen Jean's grandmother preparing to bathe.
They had bolted immediately, chased by the fear of actually seeing grumpy old Mhairi disrobed. Connor shuddered anew. Some things were too scary to think about.
Connor pushed on, leaping down the trail to the road in a rush. He paused by the far edge of Loch Sholto, its solid stone bank barely a dozen feet thick along the outer lip of the ridge, close to the spot where the road began its steep switchback down to the valley below. He was tempted to stop for a swim, but didn't fancy returning to town blue-lipped and trembling with cold.
Halfway down the switchback road, he paused to drink at a small stream that cut the road there. It began higher up in a brush-choked cave that clung to the hill about three hundred feet below the upper rim. He'd made the difficult climb up to the cave once with Hamish, but he'd been the only one who dared enter the cave so he alone had discovered the iron gate blocking its upper end.
Connor moved quickly across the northern edge of Lord Gavin's plateau. Thankfully, he spied no one, even though the manor housed Lord Gavin, his family, and their slaves. A handful of soldiers and a dozen servants worked there, mostly in serving Lady Isobel. He broke into a run down the road that led along the base of the sheer cliff back to Alasdair.
He'd worried that Lady Isobel would spot him descending the road and send for him. He didn't want to waste hours in whatever nasty chore she might assign to him, like she'd been doing so often of late.
The road expanded as it skirted the flanks of Wick Tor and dropped toward Alasdair. Connor loved the tranquil town of modest homes. A high stone wall protected the downslope and downriver sides, giving it the appearance of a fortified town, even though there was never any reason for fortifications so far upriver. Connor had spent countless hours as a child in mock battles with Hamish and Stuart, fighting back and forth across the wall, seeing it as something far grander than one of the final vestiges of the original quarry that gave the town its name.
After passing through the wide upslope gate, Connor took Market Street toward the square. Built upon the site of the original quarry, abandoned fourteen generations ago for the purer stone higher up the mountain, the granite streets were perfectly level. The homes consisted mostly of wood, with some grout and field stone, particularly for the façades of some of the shops.
It was a shame they couldn't use the granite they quarried. Such a staggering expense would be unthinkable. Granite, especially the coveted Alasdair White, commanded premium prices and could never be wasted on the commoners who spent their lives cutting it from the mountain.
In just a few short days, Connor would finally get to see Merkland Tor, High Lord Dougal's castle, with its famous walls made entirely out of precious Alasdair White. Although only a full day's trip downriver, few villagers other than the bargemen ever made the journey to Merkland. As a soon-to-be Guardian, he would have to.
Alasdair was a beehive of activity as everyone worked to prepare for the Sogail, decorate the square, and clean every house. There were even a handful of children, led by Connor's brother Blair, washing down the granite streets. It seemed a silly chore, but it kept the Teagair-Linn, those children not yet twelve, occupied and out of the way.
People filled the square and bustled through the shops and businesses that commanded the center of town. They worked at the hundreds of tasks required to prepare for the celebration, including the hanging of banners with the red hammer and white stone of Lord Gavin's crest from every shop. The most successful merchants displayed carefully crafted small statues made of precious granite, draped in clover. Each had been a gift from the local lord to the town during Sogail celebrations dating back to the first decade of the town's existence. Each was a prized town possession, carefully guarded and brought out only during the Sogail.
Lord Gavin had never gifted one, although he'd hinted throughout the last year that if they met the increased quotas he might. Connor was as excited as anyone by the thought, but he didn't really expect Lord Gavin to do it. Not after the fiasco last year.
Hamish and the other workers, sweating in the noonday heat, labored to erect Lord Gavin's pavilion and assemble the long, heavy tables for the feasting. On the far side of the square a raised platform for musicians was already in place, and rope marked off areas for competitions.
The energy of the place washed away Connor's fatigue. To his right, a crowd of women bustled around tables where foodstuffs were already being prepared. Holding a place of honor in the center of the cooking area was the marvelous new Heatstone oven that had just arrived the day before on the upriver barge.
Connor's mother oversaw activity there with a contented smile on her round face. Connor grinned to see her so relaxed and obviously happy.
She caught sight of him and came to greet him. "Connor, you're back early. Are you sick?"
Connor sighed.
After tomorrow she'd have to come up with a new greeting.
"I'm fine." Lofting the horn, he added loudly for all to hear, "I killed a huge torc on the north slope."
An excited murmur ran through the crowd and spread across the square. People gathered around, talking over each other in their excitement, asking him about the torc and marveling over the thick horn.
Connor grinned under the onslaught of attention and happily related the story of the hunt. It was trickier than he'd thought to keep out references to the Curse, but he had lots of practice.
Lilias singled out a couple of workmen in the crowd and ordered them to get a horse from Lord Gavin and fetch the torc for Connor. They were so excited about the kill they didn't complain about the assignment, and Connor was happy to let them drag the monster back. It'd probably take all afternoon.
"Connor! You actually killed a torc?"
Hamish pushed his way through the crowd and spit out a small rock he'd been sucking on. "I can't believe it."
"Believe it. The monster broke my bow and my lucky arrow before I finished him off."
"Wow." Hamish looked dutifully impressed. "So how'd you kill him, with that thick skull of yours?"
"Very funny."
Stuart, the other boy in town who shared the same age-day with them, pushed through the crowd, frowning. As tall as Hamish, Stuart was built like a boulder. He already had a man's depth to his chest and his arms were thicker than Connor's and Hamish's combined. His dense, black hair was cropped close to his square head.
Jean followed, and Connor's heart skipped a beat and then raced to catch up. She stood almost as tall as Connor and had grown up with the boys, all inseparable friends.
A couple of years ago, she'd started to change. She'd developed a fascinatingly curved figure. When Connor looked at her, sometimes he found it hard to breathe. Her blond hair hung in an intricate braid stretching halfway down her back. Her eyes shone as clear and blue as the quarry lochs above town. Sometimes he struggled to figure out what to say to her, which annoyed him to no end.
Stuart stepped in front of Connor, blocking his view. The brawny youth lifted a long, stone chisel that he carried proudly. "Got my chisel today."
Connor swallowed a curse and smiled, trying to look pleased.
What terrible timing. Why couldn't Stuart get the blasted chisel tomorrow when he was supposed to?
It might not quite equal the feat of killing a torc, but getting their first diorite chisel was a major milestone in any Cutter's life.
"Congratulations," he managed. Stuart beamed.
Jean slipped around Stuart, placed one hand on his arm, and with the other slid a finger down the inner edge of the torc horn. "Is this really from the torc?"
Connor grinned. Her touch set his skin on fire right through his hunting leathers. "Aye."
"Baby one, huh?" Stuart asked.
"Not hardly. Must've weighed a hundred stone." He hefted the horn to emphasize the point. Even Stuart couldn't be that dumb.
Stuart laughed. "What'd you do, throw up on it?"
"You wish." He'd been teased about his sickness all his life. It no longer bothered him, although recently he'd started dreaming of using his Curse to put Stuart in his place, just once.
He buried the dangerous thought. He didn't want to kill Stuart, and after what he'd done today he doubted he could release the Curse without fatal consequences. Besides, after tomorrow, everyone would know. Stuart would have to show him some respect when he became a Guardian.
"So, are you ready for the Sogail Oran tomorrow?" he asked Jean.
She looked at her toes and blushed, then glanced up through her long lashes at him. His heart melted.
"I think so."
"You'll be great. You've got the best voice in town."
She beamed and lifted her chin happily. "For that, you get the first dance."
Really? For that? What about for killing the torc?
Stuart frowned and hefted his diorite chisel. "I thought I got the first one."
Jean rose up on her toes to kiss Stuart's cheek and said, "You get the second. It's always longer." Stuart smiled triumphantly at Connor.
Connor squashed the flutter of hot jealousy that burned in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Jean kissing Stuart. None of them had kissed her on the lips yet and he wasn't about to let Stuart kiss her first.
In the last year their friendship had faded behind the competition to win Jean's affection. She flirted with them all, seeming to change her affection constantly and never making it clear which of them she favored.
It was so frustrating!
"What about me?" Hamish asked.
Jean laughed, grabbed Hamish's hands, and spun him around in a circle. Several adults complained about nearly getting trampled, but that just set them both to laughing. Jean leaned in to kiss Hamish's cheek and said, "There. You've already had yours."
"Connor, you think Lord Gavin will appoint you the town cripple tomorrow?" Stuart asked.
"Eat rocks."
Despite his big plans, the question dug at a sensitive spot in his soul. At the Sogail they would celebrate the Saorsa and be recognized as near-adults. Lord Gavin would assign their vocations.
Well, he'd assign the others. Connor would claim his. Still, Stuart would clearly become a Cutter. For most of his life, Connor had wished for that too, but he could no longer pretend it was going to happen.
He knew little about Guardians. His father's brother had been taken as a newborn when the test revealed his Curse, and no one had seen him since. He'd have to be careful to conceal from the Curse Hunters how long he'd had his Curse. His parents risked being named Daor, enslaved to High Lord Dougal, if anyone ever learned they'd concealed his curse for so long.
The thought of leaving Alasdair filled Connor with powerful, mixed emotions, but usually excitement won out. In the past week he'd focused on hunting, so there would be more meat at the Sogail since before old Tam, the previous town hunter, had been killed in a pedra bloodlust three years ago.
Stuart hefted his long chisel again. "I'm a Cutter now."
"Not till tomorrow, you're not," Hamish said with a laugh. Stuart scowled at him.
"If you're lucky, you'll pay it off before your kids have kids," Connor said.
Stuart's frown deepened, but someone called for Connor to tell the tale of the torc again, so Stuart left with a final glare.
Jean leaned close to Connor and whispered in his ear, "Find me later at Granny's. I want to hear all about the torc." She gave him a dazzling smile that turned his knees to water, waved to Hamish, and slipped away through the crowd.
Connor watched her go, a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. If he could pry her away from her all-too watchful grandmother, he knew exactly what quiet spot they'd sneak off to. Alone and undisturbed, he'd tell her all about the desperate fight with the torc. She'd be so impressed. The Sogail was tomorrow, but who knew?
With such a great story, maybe she'd finally admit she liked him more.
Chapter 4
Connor eventually escaped the crowd and returned home to change out of his sweaty hunting leathers. Afternoons on the valley floor were hot, so he donned a pair of tan linen trousers and a white cotton shirt. Then he headed out through the wall gate on the western side of town, even though there had never actually been a gate to block the opening. Outside the wall, he took the road toward Loch Wick and the Powder House to see his father, the Ashlar.
Two long, stone piers jutted into the cold waters of the small loch where men busy loaded a heavy-beamed river barge with large sacks of granite powder. Situated next to the loch, near where the Upper Wick finished its wild tumble down the western flanks of the mountain, sat the Powder House. It was a heavy-beamed wooden building with a high, peaked roof and double doors that opened wide enough to drive a wagon through.
