A Stone's Throw, page 25
part #2 of The Petralist Series
That was when the granite ran out.
Instead of trying to traverse the long web of ropes hand over hand, Connor hoisted himself up through one of the openings and absorbed some basalt. It was like a whirlwind rippling down his limbs, and he tapped it, shooting across the canopy so fast none of the ropes had time to fall under him.
“Agor!” the princess exclaimed. “How did they get here before me?”
She thought he was one of the champion contenders. They were the only known Agor at the school.
As the first of the prism towers began magnifying the light, Connor poured on the speed. He had planned to purge basalt and switch to granite for the final challenge, but they would recognize him in seconds, so he cheated and tore across the final field on blurring legs.
He laughed aloud. Cheating. Of course he was cheating! He wasn’t supposed to be doing any of it, so why worry about finishing with basalt?
He lacked time and strength to pick up all of the stones scattered around the field and throw them at the distant targets, so he settled for rushing to each target and slashing the center of it with his belt dagger as he passed. Hopefully, they would not disqualify him for the unusual tactic.
He laughed harder. Disqualify.
Just as Frazier called out, “Can you see his face?” Connor crossed the finish line and, without slowing, swerved to the right where a tall hill separated the Boulder finish line from the Striders. As he bore down on that hill, he max-tapped basalt and his legs fracked. The sharp pain nearly staggered him as his thighs split and formed new joints mid-stride, but he raced through the pain and quadrupled his speed.
With a final triumphant shout, Connor shot off the top of the hill in a soaring arc that just cleared the top of the outer wall.
He hit the ground running on the far side and didn’t slow until he reached the formal garden near the side entrance to the castle. There he dropped to a normal sprint in time to round the last corner into the deep shadows of the garden, and ran right into the back of a big guy. He must have been tapping granite because he felt like a solid wall. Connor bounced off and fell, head ringing.
A meaty hand grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him high.
“Hello, linn.”
Jok.
He was so grouted.
Chapter 38
“Hey Jok, what you got there?”
Another man approached from the shadowed garden and for a second hope eased Connor’s panicked fear. Maybe he could escape without the beating Jok looked so ready to bestow.
“It’s that stupid linn who saved Shona today.”
Flames flickered around the newcomer’s hand, rippled up his arm and rose in twin columns off his shoulders. By the crimson light, Connor recognized the Dawnus Ivor, the lead contender in the Tir-raon. Flames flickered behind his eyes and Connor’s fears increased again. He knew the madness of marble and didn’t want to be anywhere around a Firetongue.
“I don’t really like your tone when you use that word,” Ivor said, his voice surprisingly calm for one walking with fire. “I am, after all, linn.”
Jok’s belligerence melted away. “You know I didn’t mean you,” he stammered.
“Perhaps.” Ivor approached and Jok looked like he wanted to retreat. “Put him down,” Ivor said. “I heard she could’ve died. Shona’s got far too much potential to waste dying in a mud pit.”
Jok dropped Connor to the ground but grabbed the collar of his shirt before he could run. “Did you hear he kissed her too?”
Ivor gestured toward a nearby, unlighted pole lantern, and it burst into golden light. The flames rippling along his arms and above his shoulders winked out, followed by the fire in his eyes. He considered Connor, a half smile on his face. “Not a man at the Carraig hasn’t dreamed of kissing Shona. You’ve got some courage tempting that fate.”
“I wasn’t kissing her,” Connor protested. “I had to breathe into her lungs to save her life.”
“Looked like a kiss to me,” Jok said, giving his collar a shake. “Think you can post the best maze time and then kiss a high lady without consequences?”
“I was just trying to help.”
Jok looked ready to punch him, but Ivor motioned him back. He released Connor and retreated a step. Connor found it fascinating that the proud Petralist would cede so readily to a Guardian. Ivor’s status as a prime contender for champion held more sway than he’d realized.
“So you get to kiss Shona, in public, and justify it all on a heroic desire to help,” Ivor said, slowly walking around Connor. “You alone saw the opportunity, and you posted the best maze time, did you?”
“Better than the Boulders anyway,” Connor said.
Ivor turned to Jok, chuckling. “I bet you all hated getting bested by an ungifted linn. You should have thought of helping, then you could have kissed Shona.”
That Ivor would echo similar words to Connor’s parting comment infuriated Jok, whose glare deepened. Ivor turned back to Connor. “You wear the sculptress’ uniform. You’re the rounds courier. I heard you like beating on Princess Catriona too.”
Connor was impressed that Ivor knew anything about him. The man seemed different than the other Petralists, and he was intrigued. “Usually I just run.”
Ivor nodded. “Wise move, and yet you have the courage to strike when the opportunity presents.”
“Not always the smartest thing to do,” Connor said.
“But always the right thing,” Ivor replied with a fierce glint in his eyes. “That’s the heart of the Guardian, Connor.” He looked to Jok, who was watching their friendly chat with open irritation. “Remember it when we get to group battles, Jok, if you want to be one of my captains.” Jok perked up, his anger fading. Was that what they were discussing when Connor ran into them?
“Study the battlefield, and only when you know how best to strike should you move.” Ivor raised a clenched fist that burst into flame. “But when you strike, commit to the blow with everything you’ve got.”
“I’ll remember that,” Connor and Jok said together.
Ivor clapped Connor on the shoulder. “Avoid kissing high ladies though. That right must be earned.”
If only he knew.
“Good luck in the Tir-raon,” Connor replied, honestly. The Dawnus showed a maturity and a level of control that was missing from most of the students.
A handful of people ran into the garden carrying torches, led by Frazier the maze lord himself. Ivor turned to greet them, and Jok stepped close to Connor.
“Your fall is coming, linn.”
“Why do you hate me?” Connor asked.
Jok gave him a scornful look. “Always you forget your place. I can’t hate someone who’s beneath me. You think you’re better than your station, but your attitude is going to get you hurt.”
Frazier greeted Ivor with a respectful nod. “Did you see anyone pass through here? There’s an unconfirmed Agor in the Carraig.”
“Impossible,” Ivor said, looking rattled for the first time.
Catriona pushed to the front of the group. “I saw it myself. Just ran the Rhidorroch. Tied your best time, Ivor.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Ivor said. He maintained better grace than Connor expected, but a flicker of fire rippled across his shoulders and he slowly clenched his fists behind his back.
Connor stayed behind Ivor, shielded from Catriona’s view, but he needn’t have worried. She looked at nothing but Ivor, and even primped the good side of her hair a little.
“Come, join the search,” Frazier said.
The group rushed into the formal gardens, drawing Ivor and Jok along with them. Connor slipped to the rear, then moved into the concealing darkness where he breathed a sigh of relief. That could have gone a lot worse.
He headed back toward the Sculpture House, a spring in his step. He’d run the Rhidorroch and lived to tell the tale. He’d met a Dawnus he could root for. He didn’t miss the irony that it was a Guardian who displayed the best qualities he’d hoped to find in the noble-born Petralists.
Chapter 39
Jean waited anxiously for Ailsa to arrive. She felt nervous, and found herself fighting to keep her breathing even. She recognized the symptoms of anxiety and chided herself to stay in control, as if she was one of her own patients. It was difficult, because her thoughts kept turning to the deadly threats gathering around Connor.
She had thought Shona alone presented a dire risk to Connor, but with Ilse hiding Tallan only knew where, the stakes had risen and grown far sharper. Before Shona made her move to regain dominion over Connor, Jean had held out the slim hope that he could escape her clutches. With both Ilse and Shona trying to secure his support, she did not doubt whoever failed to win him over would attempt to eliminate him to prevent the other side from gaining his powerful curse. She knew too little about Guardian powers and needed to understand why his particular curse would trigger so much effort.
For the moment, Shona held the upper hand, but Ilse was offering potential freedom. Jean could see how much that offer tempted Connor. For a time, she’d seriously considered promising to him. Even though they’d never share a life together, he was one of her closest friends and she knew him well enough to see his heart was turned to Verena. She hadn’t gotten to know Verena at Alasdair, but she’d heard much about the Builder.
Hamish had left with Verena, shared the amazing Builder power with her. Jean longed to see Hamish again. He’d taken root in her heart during their desperate struggle to free Alasdair, had shown he was far more than the clumsy buffoon he often pretended. She had to wonder if he had replaced Connor in Verena’s life.
The thought triggered a rush of jealous anger that left her wanting to slap someone, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility. Hamish and Verena thought Connor dead. What might have developed between them? Had Hamish forgotten her? How would Verena act when she learned Connor lived? Would she still welcome him in Granadure, or was Ilse’s promise nothing but a false hope?
Jean reminded herself to live as her grandmother taught, to look deep and see clear, and that an answer would come. She desperately needed Ailsa to help her diagnose the complex gealls they’d been swept into. Only then could they see clearly enough to know the right course. If they failed Connor, people were going to die.
Ailsa finally appeared and gave her a warm smile and hug. “You’re as lovely as Connor described you, my dear.”
“Thank you.” Ailsa shared the same striking emerald gaze as Lilias and Connor, although she was trim and radiated purpose like few people Jean had ever met. She instantly liked the sculptress and felt they’d become good friends.
Ailsa examined her more closely, focusing on her face. “Let’s hope you’re as clever as he claims.”
“I’ll do my best.” Gaining a reputation as a clever person was a lot easier in Alasdair. Maintaining that reputation at the Carraig would require an entirely different level of intellect.
“I can ask no more than that,” Ailsa said. “And to succeed, I will require nothing less.”
With another encouraging smile, she led Jean through the narrow, twisting streets between the tall, imposing buildings of the Carraig. They pushed through the crowds and finally stopped at a grand building with ornate carvings on its columned portico. Jean recognized the central library and eagerly followed Ailsa inside. She had entered the library once with Lady Shona, and had stood in amazement until Shona had finally lost patience and told her to stop gawking and attend her. This time she fared little better.
The main hall of the library rose three stories in a giant, vaulted room, with bookshelves lining the walls all the way up. Narrow balconies clung to the walls. Young linn scurried up and down tall ladders set on rollers that rumbled back and forth across the stacks. The boys scampered like squirrels, with no apparent fear for their safety. They returned books to their places or snatched other volumes to deliver to waiting students. The entire expanse smelled of leather and dust and ink. Although everyone spoke softly, the room echoed with their whispers, which almost sounded like the faint voices of all of those volumes, begging to be read.
Ailsa wrapped a gentle arm around her waist and guided her into a smaller antechamber. “You will get your chance to read, my dear, but not in the main stacks. They hold nothing of interest to our needs.”
“They might,” Jean protested. How could Ailsa discount that vast wealth of unexplored knowledge?
“Pay attention now,” Ailsa said. “Your task is not without danger of its own.”
“What do you need me to do?” Jean asked. Was Ailsa worried a pile of books might fall on her?
“Come,” she said and, after glancing around to make sure they were not observed, slipped through a narrow door at the end of the room marked, “Private.”
Jean’s pulse accelerated as she followed Ailsa down a dim corridor lined with dusty books piled as high as her shoulders in places, through a long room packed with more books, to a thick oak door with an iron lock. Ailsa drew forth an ancient-looking key and, with a grunt of effort, turned it in the lock. The click sounded unusually loud and Jean glanced around nervously, trying to peek over or around the inconsistent piles, worried someone would arrive to throw them out.
“Don’t worry my dear, this time of day the workers take their lunches. This is one of the easiest entrances to begin with.”
“Entrances to what?” Jean’s worry and curiosity were rising in equal measure.
“Come,” Ailsa said again and led the way through.
She closed the door behind them, plunging them into near-complete darkness, broken by a distant glow from far below. It took Jean a few seconds to realize it must be a lantern set far down a long flight of stairs. After a few seconds, Ailsa lit a lantern sitting on a nearby shelf and the soft glow illuminated the narrow landing where they stood, as well as the top of those stairs. Without speaking, Ailsa led Jean down. The long stone stair was steep, narrow, and irregularly lit by fixed lamps. It ran straight down into the depths, without turning.
Jean walked close behind Ailsa as the chill air caressed her face. She expected the lower levels of the castle to be damp, but the air was as dry as a tomb and smelled clean, if a little stale. After descending for several minutes, the unbroken stairway emptied into a perpendicular, square corridor of whitewashed stone walls that ran left and right into murky shadows in both directions.
Ailsa turned right and said, “Pay attention. You don’t want to get lost down here. It could be some time before you found another exit.”
Jean walked even closer, nearly treading on Ailsa’s shoes a couple times.
“Better to be lost than discovered,” Ailsa said softly and Jean wondered who else might walk the dim corridors. She decided she didn’t want to know.
After passing several branching hallways, Ailsa paused at one that looked exactly like the others. “Here. Seventh on the left.”
One moment’s distraction down in those lower levels could result in a person becoming hopelessly lost. They took eight more turns and each time, before going on, Ailsa made Jean recite the counts of how many hallways they passed and which way they turned to reach that point. Twice they heard distant footsteps echoing out of the darkness and Ailsa immediately flung her cloak over their lantern to conceal its light. They waited in silence until the footsteps faded away.
Jean should have been terrified, but found herself growing more eager with every passing minute. She had never imagined so much area to explore lay hidden under the Carraig, and skulking around those dim halls thrilled her like few things ever had.
“Where are we going?” Jean asked finally. She had no idea what Ailsa wanted of her, but she was hoping it entailed returning to this mysterious underbelly of the castle.
“Take a look for yourself.”
For the first time during the trek, they faced an iron-banded oak door, similar to the one at the top of the stairs, but with no lock. Ailsa pushed the door open and entered a surprisingly well-lit room. The interior was as plush as the outer corridors were blank and cold. The long, high-ceilinged room could easily have been situated on the main levels of the castle, not hidden away in the basements. Fluted stone pillars held up a ceiling covered in brightly colored paintings, while thick carpet covered the floor. The room was broken into smaller sections by half-walls, four fireplaces, dozens of comfortable chairs, and three long wooden tables.
Jean barely noticed all that, saw little more than the deeply polished walnut shelves lining every wall, filled with thick volumes of leather-bound books.
“What is this place?”
“The inner library,” Ailsa said as she stepped deeper into the room and trailed a hand along the spines of one row of books. “Few know of its existence, and fewer still have access.”
“Why would they hide this library so far from the main one?”
“Because they don’t want people to know about it, of course,” Ailsa said.
“So we shouldn’t be here?” Jean glanced around with a grin of excitement, already picking out places of possible concealment if someone happened upon them.
Ailsa laughed. “Of course we’re not supposed to be here. That’s why I told you this task holds a very real element of danger. Should you be discovered here, the consequences might prove severe, particularly given your connection to Lady Shona.”
“Why would that present a risk?”
“She and her father run many gealls, and they have many enemies.”
“Who comes here?”
Ailsa shrugged. “I know only a little. It proved almost beyond my means to obtain this key.” She extended the iron key to Jean, who tucked it into her waist pouch with eager fingers. That key proved she would get more opportunities to explore.
“What do I need to do?” Jean asked as she surveyed the long stacks of books.
