A Stone's Throw, page 22
part #2 of The Petralist Series
“There is a danger to over-using one’s Boulder strength,” Hector admitted. “Too much low to mid-level tapping over long periods of time can actually reduce one’s affinity with the powder, requiring greater absorption rate to achieve the same results.”
Connor couldn’t believe he was actually admitting that. Couldn’t he see the risk he faced?
“So we need to work out with granite hard and often, but not burn it constantly,” Jok summed up. “And we can get stronger?”
“To a certain point,” the professor agreed. “There are thresholds that one cannot exceed except in unique circumstances that are beyond the scope of today’s lesson.”
Connor filed away the information, but his pressing problems forced the intriguing discussion to the back of his mind again. He couldn’t remember anything Professor Greim said while he delivered the rounds there. Professor Todhar helped him focus by whacking him solidly with his practice sword during their training session, scolded him for not paying attention.
The duel with Catriona went about as badly as he’d feared. She wore a hat to hide the ugly bald spot, max-tapped granite, and chased him back and forth across the practice field, trying to kill him and shouting at him to stand still. Many of the other students cheered her on and mocked Connor for cowardice.
The only way he could think to help her look good was to run slow enough that she almost hit him a lot. She cracked him in the side once, and he nearly stumbled. She would have killed him for sure.
Thankfully the constant max-tapping burned through her portion and she deflated to her normal, dumpy self. He tried to initiate an actual practice bout, but she was so bad, he ended up whacking her in the head, knocking her down. He sighed. With Catriona, he only seemed to make things worse, no matter how hard he tried.
One of the other girls took pity on her and punched Connor with granite-driven power, sending him flying and cracking ribs. It wasn’t hard to look pathetic as he groaned, clutching his injured side, hoping the injury helped ease Catriona’s hatred.
“Enough,” Professor Todhar said before Catriona could start beating him with her sword. “Those are not the forms I ordered you to practice.”
Connor could have kissed the man’s feet.
Catriona looked like she was tempted to kill him anyway and risk getting expelled, but without granite, she probably wouldn’t accomplish more than raise bruises.
Connor slipped one hand into his belt pouch and caressed the bit of sandstone he’d lifted from the Healers. He opened himself to its gentle warmth enough to allow a trickle of healing power to flow up his arm and wrap around his ribs. It took the edge off of his pain enough that he could move without openly wincing at every step.
He kept his face impassive while Professor Todhar upbraided Catriona for acting unladylike, and the other girl for leaving her sparring partner. He was tempted to wink, but that would probably start a riot, and he hurt too much to outrun her again.
As soon as the class ended, he escaped the still-glaring princess and her gaggle of deadly friends and returned to the healing wing inside the Carraig complex.
Aifric caught sight of him as he entered the room. She led the other eager students over to check on him.
“Did you miss me?” he asked.
She gave him a hard look, one hand gripping his shoulder. “You outdid yourself today, Connor.”
“I figured you might be getting bored.”
Another girl spoke from behind him where she had pressed both hands to his back. Already the pain had begun to ease under her attention. “Four cracked ribs, moderate internal damage. Looks like you were kicked by a mule.”
“I didn’t get her name, but you might be right.”
Aifric offered to let him lie down for a while to rest, but he shook his head. “I just need a quick patch job before getting back to work.”
“You need rest,” she insisted. “We can ease your injuries, but you’ve suffered a lot of trauma in the past few days and only rest will complete the healing.”
“I wish you could bottle what you do,” he said. “I could sip on it while running with the bulls.”
“I’m serious, Connor,” she said. “You can’t keep this up.”
“Can you give me a Healer’s note?” he asked. “I’ll show it to everyone who wants to beat me up so they know I’ve been excused.”
“Who’s doing this to you?” she asked. “I’ll make them stop.” She looked suddenly fierce, like a mother nuall whose kittens were being threatened. Knowing she wanted to look after him helped more than her healing magic had.
He took her hand. “Thank you, my lady Aifric. You’re a noble lady.”
“And you have a death wish,” she scolded.
“Maybe it’s just an excuse to come see all of you beautiful healers?”
Some of the other girls giggled, but Aifric gave him a stern look that Jean would have been proud of. “You’re not fooling me, Connor.” Her expression softened and she added, “Really, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I will.” He thanked Aifric and the other Healers again. They waved, and several of them called, “See you tomorrow.”
As pleasant as they were, he hoped not to see them again for a while.
Chapter 34
The next day Connor only needed to deliver granite and basalt in the daily rounds, so he lingered on the platform overlooking the Rhidorroch. All three Boulder classes met at the same time so students could witness the performance of all of the classes. The huge scoreboard had been raised to tower over the wall, showing to all the world the top scorers. Seeing names on the board whipped the students into a frenzy of anticipation for the next run.
The maze had been reconfigured, so he studied the new challenge as students struggled to traverse the unfamiliar pathways. He was surprised by how many students lacked the ability to chart a good path. It dawned on him that many of the rich, privileged youth had never needed to work at anything challenging in their lives. They just commanded a servant to do it for them. That childhood of lazy privilege worked against them at the Carraig.
Another interesting twist on the day’s contest was the tap-rate challenge. The professors had agreed to a plan to encourage students to better manage their tap-rates since many of them still utterly failed in that area. They again allowed students exactly half their daily ration for the running of the Gauntlet. After completing the course, they would purge any remaining powder and gain bonus points for the amount of resulting lamacal. All three classes met together for the day’s run, so the platform was crowded.
The problem was, they hadn’t informed Connor of the plan prior to preparing the daily round. They left it to him to divide the portions. From his years working with his father in the Powder House he had gained a sensitivity to weights and measures, but no one would accept the word of a simple linn that their measure was correct. So he used a spare portions pouch and devised a crude but effective balance. Then he divided each portion until both halves balanced perfectly.
Most students didn’t seem to care. They were too worried about planning how to complete the course with less powder. Connor planned to keep the excess powder and deliver them for the afternoon classes, as he had the day before. Only Professor Hector protested, insisting on taking all of the portions as usual. He reluctantly handed one portion back to Connor to be used for two students, and he reserved the remainder, to be used in the afternoon classes as he saw fit.
“I don’t mind making the round, sir,” he dared. “I’ll be passing by your class anyway.”
Professor Hector hesitated, so Connor added, “I’ll inform Sculptress Ailsa you don’t need the afternoon round then.”
The professor glared. “Never mind!” He dumped all of the student portions at Connor’s feet with a look of disgust. “Do your duty, then. I don’t care.”
He stomped away and Connor sighed. It was going to be a long class.
Jok crouched nearby, as if studying the scale. “Have you found Jean yet?”
“I’ve confirmed she’s not in the central castle.”
“I told you she wasn’t.”
“I have to be thorough, don’t I?”
Jok frowned. “Don’t tweak my geall, boy. You’re running out of time.”
“I’ll find her,” Connor said. “All you need to worry about is trying to complete the course today.”
As he hoped, the reminder of Jok’s previous failure distracted him. Jok rose and snapped, “I’ll win today.”
He pushed through the class to stand with his pig-eyed friend, and Connor celebrated his secret victory from the day before. Now that the standings were displayed publicly, the lack of his name on the list infuriated Jok. When his turn came, he bulled through the course with admirable determination. He posted the best individual Boulder time of the day to that point, but it was still one second behind Shona’s time of the day before.
Connor’s smile faded when Catriona came to collect her powder. She glared at him for daring to touch her portion. He noticed some of the other girls casting angry glares in his direction, and wondered if they’d move against him there on the platform. It wouldn’t take much. While everyone was distracted watching the runner, a couple of students could step between him and the teachers, easily blocking him from view, crouched over his little balance as he was. Catriona would only need a single punch to crush his skull. Even though everyone knew she wanted to kill him, with some help from her friends, she might just get away with it.
He couldn’t ignore the possibility. While depositing the extra powder into his satchel, he slipped a finger into the pouch and absorbed a bit of granite. It skittered up his arm with its so-familiar itchy crawl and he breathed easier. He’d missed the feel of it over the past days. He wouldn’t tap it unless forced to, but he wouldn’t allow Catriona to kill him.
Tense minutes passed until Catriona’s turn arrived. Every time anyone approached, he tensed, ready to tap granite and fight for his life. No one struck though, and he relaxed a little when Catriona settled into the slide. The new maze configuration delayed her so long Connor wanted to groan with frustration. For all her efforts running back and forth across the same wrong turns, she lacked the ability to see the maze as a whole.
She was not the only one. That gave Connor an idea, and he considered the possibility as he watched the other runners. Perhaps there was a geall he could run after all.
Then Shona stepped to the slide. She had not paid him any special attention when collecting her portion, a silent reminder that her connection to him could not yet be revealed. She needed a good time to stay ahead of Jok and to help boost the lagging class-wide scores of Professor Greim’s class.
Shona raced through the new maze without missing a single turn. Connor was not surprised. Despite his complex feelings for Shona, he had to admit she possessed a nimble mind and was in excellent shape. In record time she reached the narrow, rounded plank bridge and the huge wooden sphere she would need to roll across it. By the way she moved, Connor could tell she hadn’t yet tapped granite. If she continued so well, she would gain more bonus points than anyone.
As she started rolling the sphere across the treacherous plank, it nearly fell off. She caught it, her body shifting into the perfect lines of granite.
After two steps, she stumbled, lurched to one side, and pitched off the plank.
Students jeered and clapped at the unexpected failure, and Jok applauded the loudest. Connor at first began smiling at the sight of Shona falling into the deep mud pit, but she landed flat on her face and made no movement.
Then the wooden sphere rolled off the plank and landed right on her back, driving her down into the mud.
Again the assembled students laughed and cheered, enjoying the rare opportunity to see Shona fail, but Connor barely heard them. While his gaze stayed fixed on where she’d disappeared into the mud, his mind tumbled back to the times when Shona had collapsed during the battle of Alasdair, victim of the Grandurians’ mysterious weakening powder.
Ilse.
Without any conscious decision, Connor plowed through the ranks of surprised students and leaped into the slide down to the maze. Angry voices raised behind him, some offended that he would push roughly past them, while others took up the cry that no linn were allowed to run the course. Connor ignored them and tore through the maze as fast as he could run, wishing he had basalt and that he dared tap it.
Shona would die, helpless and drowning in the mud while the stupid Petralists all looked on, uncaring.
He could not allow that to happen. With the maze mapped out already in his mind, Connor raced through the obstacle with the seconds ringing through his mind like drums of doom. He couldn’t lose her, not yet. He needed her patronage. As much as he was loathe to accept the life she was pushing him into, he didn’t wish her dead either.
Without slowing, Connor exited the maze and sprinted through the ropes section, desperation driving him to take chances he never would have dared without the aid of basalt. He passed the other obstacles and leaped off the edge of the final pit, driving deep into the mud beside the huge wooden sphere where Shona had disappeared until his legs hit the bottom. He tucked his knees and used his momentum to sink all the way under the surface, tracing his hands along the sloping side of the sphere, using fingers as eyes as he searched for Shona.
He found her pinned under the huge sphere, pressed right against the bottom of the pit. He located her hands, and hauled mightily, with his feet pressed against the underside of the sphere. Nothing happened.
Connor groaned. He’d been stuck in mud before, been foiled by its suction grip. Piled so deep over Shona, it fought his efforts like a malevolent agent of the Grandurians. He’d never pull her out that way.
Most of his body was under the mud, or at least under the edge of the sphere. To the yelling students, so far above, he’d be all but invisible. So Connor tapped granite. He hadn’t absorbed much, not enough to swell all of his muscles, and for that he was grateful. He gripped Shona’s limp hands with strengthened fingers and pulled again, driving against the sphere with his feet.
She only moved a little, but the heavy wooden sphere rocked away to one side, allowing him to move close, duck under the mud and slip one shoulder under her torso. With a mighty heave, he burned through all but the last remnant of his granite strength, and thrust the two of them out of the mud.
Connor spat the clinging filth and shook his head wildly to clear his eyes. He’d retained just enough granite to prevent post-tap exhaustion, and desperation gave him enough strength to turn Shona. Had she not been wearing her battle leathers with its myriad plates and straps, he never could have found purchase through the slippery mud sufficient to keep a grip on her.
With mud-coated hands, he brushed the filth out of her face, but for a second was at a loss for how to clear her mouth and nose. She wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving. She lay as limp as death in his arms, and flickers of panic set his heart racing. If she died, he’d become unclaimed. How long before his curse drove him to murderous rage?
Then he remembered the training he and Hamish had received as youths from Bruce, Lord Gavin’s bodyguard, for helping a drowning victim. As voices finally called out from the observation platform in alarm, Connor twisted Shona around, wrapped his arms around her waist, and squeezed hard in a convulsive move that drove the little remaining air out of her lungs.
Gobbets of mud spewed from her mouth, but still she didn’t breathe. She must have suffocated, perhaps even unconscious before she struck the surface. Fear and grief washed through him and his eyes stung with more than wet dirt. This couldn’t be happening.
He forced a modicum of calm over his whirling thoughts. Help was on the way. Surely the Healer who attended all of the classes would be able to help Shona, and the workers who hid in the underbelly of the course would arrive shortly to help.
Shona couldn’t wait. She needed air, needed to breathe.
A single memory offered a tiny ray of hope. Settling Shona’s limp form back, he supported her head with one hand, squeezed her nostrils with the other, and leaned forward to press his muddy lips to hers. Praying for a miracle, he blew a full breath of air into her mouth.
Her lungs inflated with the life-giving air and for a moment he re-lived the first time he had kissed her. In that moment he no longer stood in a pit in the Rhidorroch, but hung suspended in the chill darkness of the Lower Wick as he held Shona under the water to hide from Kilian, the Water Moccasin.
As Connor took another deep breath and again blew it into Shona’s mouth, he tasted both the mud and the clear waters of the Wick. The mud smelled fresh, as if someone had just mixed clean dirt with water and added a twist of soap. Although Shona’s lips remained soft, unresponsive, feeling them again rattled him to the core.
He prepared to share a third breath with her, but someone plunged into the mud beside him. He glimpsed a rock-had fist just before it drove into the small of his back. He tapped the last of his granite just as pain scattered the memories clustered so close just a heartbeat before. He tumbled away, lifted clear of the mud by the force of the blow, ramming into the nearby wooden sphere. He turned to see Shona’s limp form soar into the air to be caught by eager hands.
The late-arriving rescuer turned to Connor and his heart froze with dread.
Jok.
The burly student advanced on Connor, who tried to shrink away. Jok’s easygoing taunting was gone, replaced by seething rage.
“How dare you touch Lady Shona, you filthy linn?”
Jok punched at Connor’s face, his granite-enhanced arm swelling with deadly power. Connor twisted aside and the blow that would have crushed his skull missed by inches and knocked the sphere rolling. He fell back into the mud and tried to scramble away as Jok plowed forward, grabbed him by the shirt, and lifted him high, murder in his eyes.
“Stop it, you idiot,” a woman’s voice cut the air like the crack of a whip.
