Set in stone, p.7
Set in Stone, page 7
Connor breathed his own sigh of relief. If the fire weren't contained soon, it could easily threaten the rest of the manor. He and Hamish were in enough trouble already.
Lord Gavin reached them, panting from the unaccustomed exertion. "What happened in there, lad?"
"The Heatstone oven sort of broke," Connor said cautiously. One did not lie to the lord, but if he handled this carefully, perhaps Lord Gavin would not question them too closely, and assume things were not their fault.
That thin hope died a gruesome death as Lady Isobel staggered around the corner of the manor, leaning heavily on her daughter, Moira.
Lady Isobel looked like some wraith from one of Bruce's stories. Her frilly dress was charred and ragged. Her eyebrows had burned completely away, along with most of her hair. Her eyes stood out against her blackened, furious face.
Lord Gavin followed Connor's gaze and, at the sight of her obvious rage, he slipped a pace behind Bruce.
"Seize that miscreant," Lady Isobel shouted from twenty paces away, pointing one claw-like hand at Connor.
Bruce took Connor's arm and whispered, "Stones boy, what have you done?"
Connor only shook his head. He had to think his way out of this. There had to be a way to explain it. Lady Isobel hadn't really seen what happened.
"Murderer," Lady Isobel shrieked as she drew closer.
"Mother, no one is dead. He can't be a murderer," said Moira.
Connor willed a silent thank you to her. As much as he hated Lady Isobel, he felt the opposite for Moira. She might not possess the same heart-pounding beauty as Jean, but she was a good friend.
Where Jean was slender and supple, with a long, graceful neck and heart-shaped face, Moira's figure was fuller, with an honest, oval-shaped face. Her dark hair and hazel eyes attracted Connor as powerfully as her quick mind and adventurous spirit.
Lady Isobel waved a dismissive hand toward her daughter, "Don't interrupt. That boy tried to kill me."
"I did not," Connor blurted out as Lord Gavin turned a steely glare on him.
"Don't you lie to me, you worthless Linn," Lady Isobel shouted. She advanced on him, and only Bruce's strong grip on his shoulder kept him from bolting.
For a second, he thought she meant to strike him, but instead she only thrust an angry finger under his nose. "You spiteful, deceitful boy. You destroyed my beautiful oven and burned my kitchen after all I've done for you."
Connor blinked a couple of times at her audacity. The rage he'd felt for the past hour at the theft of the oven had largely dissipated, but now ignited afresh. He wished he could shout back at her, but that would just seal his fate.
"Now Isobel," Lord Gavin said placatingly. "Let's learn the details . . ."
"Don't you 'now Isobel' me," she snapped. "I will see justice done here today."
She spun back to Connor and said in a ringing tone, "For your crimes, I name you Connor Daor-Linn Gavin."
Moira gasped, Lord Gavin blanched, and Bruce's hand shook on Connor's shoulder. For Connor, the words drove into him like daggers and he staggered back a step. She named him slave, Daor to Lord Gavin or, more precisely, to her.
No, it wasn't impossible. Tomorrow he would reveal his Curse, gain Patronage. Tomorrow his life would change.
He could not help but blurt out, "But, tomorrow is the Sogail."
She snorted. "Not for you. Tomorrow my husband rescinds Teagair for you, and you will serve me to pay for your crimes."
The world seemed to tilt under Connor's feet, and he swayed. Would they really break him away from his family and make him slave? This could not be happening. He glanced to Lord Gavin for help, but the weak-willed man looked completely cowed by his wife and ready to lay blame on Connor.
Lord Gavin waved a hand. "Bruce, lock him in the turnip room until after the Sogail."
As Bruce started pulling Connor toward the far corner of the manor, he couldn't help crying out, "Please, don't do this! It was an accident."
Lady Isobel snorted in reply.
"You don't understand," he begged and dragged against Bruce's arm. "I have to go to the Sogail tomorrow."
"You should have thought of that before you tried to kill me," Lady Isobel said. "Away with you."
"No, wait!" Connor protested, fighting against Bruce. "You know this is wrong! Isn't stealing the oven enough?"
"I didn't steal it," Lady Isobel shrieked. "I confiscated it."
Lord Gavin said, "My dear, the boy does have a point."
Lady Isobel rounded on her husband and screamed, "Don't meddle, Gavin! He broke my precious oven! I will own him!"
Connor tried to protest again, but Bruce whispered, "Stop it, lad. She's in one of her moods, and you'll only make it worse."
"You can't do this to me," Connor begged as Bruce towed him back to the southeast corner of the manor.
"Who said I was?"
He looked up to meet Bruce's blue-eyed gaze for the first time. Bruce looked sad, as well he might. He knew all too well the hardships of slavery. He'd been a free Linn once, a great soldier if one could believe the stories.
Bruce winked. "All right, lad, now's the time."
"I don't understand."
Bruce rolled his eyes. "Struggle."
Connor frowned at the cryptic answers, but tugged at Bruce's arm anyway. He was unprepared when Bruce gave a great cry and staggered back three paces before collapsing to the ground.
As Connor moved to help him, Bruce glared and said, "Don't be daft, boy, run!"
Connor glanced back toward Lord Gavin just as Bruce gave a great moan and shouted, "Oy, the boy's gone and broke my leg."
Lord Gavin shouted, "Now hold on there," but Connor was already running.
As he rounded the end of the building and bolted for the road down toward town, Lady Isobel's voice rang out loudly, "Guards! After him. Bring me that slave!"
None of the guards were even outside yet. They were probably helping the servants fight the fire. Connor ran hard, but as he passed the manor's main entrance, Hamish stepped into the door.
"What's going on?"
Not slowing, Connor shouted, "Get back. Go take care of Aileen."
"She's fine."
"Just go. And if anyone asks you, just tell them it was all my fault."
He did not wait for an answer, but poured on the speed and sprinted down the long road toward Alasdair. He had to get home. His parents would know what to do.
In the distance, he could see a crowd of people pouring out through the upper gate and running toward him. The sight slowed him for a second.
How could they know he was a fugitive? And worse, why would they be so eager to help Lady Isobel?
Then the truth dawned on him and he glanced back. A dense column of smoke rose from the manor house. The townsfolk were responding to the threat of fire.
As Connor neared, people started calling out questions. Connor shouted, "The kitchen's on fire. They need help."
He pushed past the first ranks of villagers without slowing, and then caught sight of his parents in the press. A wave of relief washed through him and he ran to them.
"Connor, you're a mess, what happened?" Lilias asked.
"Is the fire bad?" Hendry asked at the same time.
"Never mind the fire," Connor said and drew them aside. A few people glanced their way, but no one stopped to listen.
"What's happened, son?" Hendry asked.
"Hamish and I sort of broke the oven."
When he paused, his father said, "That's not everything is it?"
Connor shook his head, took a deep breath, and added in a rush: "We kind of set fire to the kitchen and burned Lady Isobel."
"You didn't!" Lilias exclaimed.
"We didn't mean to, it just sort of all happened."
"I bet she's angrier than a grounded pedra," Hendry said.
"Worse. She named me Daor."
His parents paled at the news, and Lilias snarled, "That black-hearted pedra spawn."
"Watch your language, love," Hendry said out of habit as he glanced back toward the manor. "This is serious."
"She wants to lock me up," Connor continued. "What am I going to do?"
"For now, find a place to hide," Hendry said. "Soldiers coming."
Connor followed his gaze and noticed two of Lord Gavin's soldiers rushing down the hill toward them. A third appeared behind, mounted on a draft horse.
He turned to run, and his mother said, "Not at the house. They'll be sure to check there first."
"Don't worry," he shouted over his shoulder as he bolted for the gate. "They'll never find me."
"Wait until dark," Hendry called after him.
Connor did not bother to reply. He raced through the gate and darted to the right so the wall concealed him from the guards' view.
He threaded his way through Alasdair fast. The streets were all but empty, with every able-bodied hand already running to help fight the fire. Everyone else was still up at the quarry or down at the Powder House.
Laid out in a grid pattern, the streets of Alasdair would make it all too easy for the guards to sweep the town looking for him. Connor moved two streets to the right and then turned left down a main cross street.
As he ran, he considered his options. Several possible hiding places came to mind. As children, he and his friends had played find-the-devil and many other games that forced them to find all the best hiding spots. He doubted the guards knew the town half as well.
His best bet was the flood-under passage, but it lay on the downriver side of town, and the clatter of hooves on granite roads declared that the mounted soldier had reached Alasdair. So he bolted down a narrow alley between two shops, shimmied over an aged woodshed that would collapse if it were ever fully emptied, and climbed through a dust-covered window in the back wall of a maintenance barn behind the town council offices. The window was supposed to be locked, but the lock had broken years ago.
Inside, Connor moved slowly, clambering along one of the shelves, breathing shallow. This building was used only sparingly, and housed among other things, the town's store of pumice dust, which was used in the quarrying process. A fine layer of the light but gritty powder coated everything. A quick step and a deep breath almost guaranteed a coughing fit, while a careless step would leave telltale footprints.
Protected in this safe haven, he relaxed. He'd hidden here with great success many times. On the other hand, Hamish had only tried it once. He'd ended up sucking on a rock coated with pumice and coughed for ten minutes straight.
The interior was one long, open room lined with sturdy shelves that held tools, boxes of spare parts, and heavy barrels of pumice. Connor wedged himself into an open space on one shelf next to a moldy roll of burlap.
Men's voices sounded outside a moment later, and Connor silently shifted along the shelves to the front wall, where he peeked through the tiny, grime-crusted window set above the door. He could just make out the dim forms of two of the guards, but could not hear what they said. He crouched lower even though he knew they could not see him.
Connor stepped to the left, and his foot slipped on a box of hammer handles. He lurched to one side and barely caught himself, while the box tumbled off the shelf and struck the floor with a loud crash. Flying hammer handles made a thunderous din.
Connor's heart nearly stopped at the sound. The guards would have to be raging drunk and sitting on each other's heads to not hear that. Thinking fast, he stomped hard on the shelf, and it splintered under the blow, tumbling Connor to the floor with a crash.
For a second he lay amid the scattered handles. The guards' voices drew closer, as he had expected. Hopefully the sound of the shelf crashing blended in with the echoes of the fallen box.
The outer door rattled, and Connor quietly crawled along the lowest shelf toward the far window where he'd entered. The door was always padlocked, and he doubted the guards had a key. While they fiddled with it, he could escape out the back.
Just as he was about to climb up onto a barrel of pumice dust under the window, one of the guards spoke just outside. "Aye, there's a window over here. I'll check."
Connor pried open the lid of the barrel that was only about a third full. Outside, the guard grunted loudly as he tried to climb up to the window. Connor prayed that the rickety woodshed would finally collapse, but it held.
He slipped into the barrel and squatted down. It was a tight fit, and he wiggled his feet deep into the pumice to gain the extra two inches he needed to squeeze his head in.
Before he eased the lid back into place, he scanned the room. He'd left some tracks near the hammers, but those would be easy to miss without close inspection. The smudges he'd made crawling on the shelves would be all but impossible to see from the window.
He tried to hold his breath as he eased the lid back into place. Not that he could breathe much, rolled into a ball like one of fat Neasa's Sogail pastries. If he coughed, the guards would have him.
"Empty," a voice called out. "Looks like a shelf gave way."
A low grumbling that sounded a lot like a curse was the only answer. Connor focused on breathing just enough to stay conscious. His face was pressed down onto his knees, and it felt like he'd picked up a splinter in his backside during the squirm into the barrel.
Connor closed his eyes and prayed the soldiers would leave soon, but he didn't dare climb out of the box for half an hour.
Chapter 9
Connor stopped in the shadows near his home to wait and watch, invisible in the deep shadows of twilight. He'd beaten most of the pumice out of his clothing, which of course set off a five minute coughing fit, but he'd had no choice. The light gray powder glowed in the dim light.
Then again, maybe it didn't matter. The streets were unusually empty as most townsfolk were gathered in the town square enjoying the pre-Sogail celebration that had become as much a part of the festivities as the holiday itself.
He waited for ten long minutes before sneaking up to the back door of the house. He slipped inside and crossed the storage room where spare tools, boots, and outer clothing were stored neatly on shelves or pegs. He listened for another minute, but heard no voices he did not recognize.
His mother, who stood kneading bread dough, caught sight of him as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. She handed baby Fiona to Blair, who nearly rivaled Connor's size at ten. He would rival their father's stature, and carried on his still-too-narrow shoulders the weight of the family's hopes for a son to take up the Ashlar hammer.
"Oh, Connor," Lilias said and enveloped him in her arms. Connor leaned into her embrace, and the tension that had knotted his insides all afternoon eased.
"Glad you're back, Connor," said Blair before leaving the kitchen. His voice drifted back to them from the family room. "Dad, Connor's home."
Connor expected his mother to release him so they could join the rest of the family, but instead, his father came into the kitchen and spoke over his shoulder, "Blair, see the other children upstairs."
His father then turned to Connor and, with hands on hips, said, "You've struck a fault line, sure as daylight, son."
"I know, dad. It's terrible."
Lilias held him at arm's length. "You didn't really try to kill Lady Isobel, did you?"
"No," he assured them. "Though she deserved it."
Hendry shook his head slowly, and chuckled, "I've never seen her in such a state. Serves her right."
Lilias covered her mouth with her hand to hide her own smile, and then said sternly, "Hendry, this is serious."
"Did you get the fire out?" Connor asked.
Hendry grunted. "Kitchen's destroyed, but we kept it from spreading. Lady Isobel swore you tried to kill her, but Aileen and Hendry both said they saw the oven break."
Connor nodded. "That's the truth."
"How did it happen?"
He shrugged. "I can't explain it."
"Did the oven really fly?" Lilias asked.
Connor couldn't suppress a grin. "Aye, it flew, with me lying on top." He told them about the experience, although he left out the part where Hamish tampered with the oven. He did not understand what Hamish did, and refused to tell it wrong.
When he told them how he Curse-punched the oven, they shared a worried glance. "Oh, Connor, why couldn't you have waited just one more day?" Lilias said sadly.
"That blasted oven would've killed us both."
"You did the right thing," Hendry said. "But how does it work, that Curse-punch?"
"Hendry," Lilias warned.
"I just . . ."
"No. Not until he's got Patronage."
Connor had yearned for years to talk with someone about his Curse, but his parents were so focused on keeping it secret, they never wanted to explore it. For once, he was relieved.
The Curse had grown in strength while he crouched in the pumice barrel, but something was wrong. Usually it itched along his arms and, as it grew in strength, up into his torso, but now it felt more like little bubbles flitting around under his skin.
He'd never used the Curse twice in one day before, and worried he might have broken it somehow. As much as he hated the Curse, despite how it prevented him from living a normal life, despite how it dragged him down to misery, it had always been a part of his life. He understood how to live with it.
Now, if he'd broken it, who knew what might happen?
"Lady Isobel won't let me go to the Sogail. I'll have to petition the Curse Finders tonight."
