A Stone's Throw, page 8
part #2 of The Petralist Series
Ailsa nodded with satisfaction as she surveyed the long row of sacks. “We have a good supply this year.”
“High Lord Dougal sponsors granite,” Gisela said. “He was most generous.”
Using a specially designed measuring cup that held about half a handful of powder, they scooped individual portions into small leather pouches, marked the count on the tally book, which Ailsa signed. Then Connor tucked the pouches into one of the central pockets of his satchel. After preparing exactly one hundred seventy-eight pouches, they added four more with five times as much powder.
“For the instructors,” Gisela explained.
Then they followed the same procedure to fill eighty-five pouches of basalt, plus three larger ones for teachers. Connor hefted the now-heavy satchel. “That’s a lot of powder.” Captain Rory had led his first assault against the Grandurians entrenched in Alasdair with only a fraction as much.
“That’s just igneous stones,” Gisela said. “We make this round every day.”
“Every day?” The sheer volume of granite consumed by the school staggered Connor. He was accustomed to keeping exact counts and careful measurements from his time working in the Powder House with his father. Although not as good at math as Jean, he could easily figure the rough cost of the stone and was shocked to realize one day equaled the entire monthly income sent to Alasdair.
“Sedimentary and metamorphic stone rounds are three times a week.” She gestured at the shelves farther back in the storeroom filled with wooden trays piled high with small stones.
“Should last a couple months before we need to prepare some of the larger blocks,” Ailsa said, looking pleased. The far end of the storeroom held power stones that would need to be broken into smaller pieces for Petralist consumption.
A little shaken by the piles of wealth held in the storeroom, Connor slipped into a dark blue jacket, trimmed with silver that Ailsa took from a peg near the door. It fit quite well, and he was happy to see no mustard yellow caps anywhere. Then he lugged the heavy satchel back up the stairs.
“This will be your primary duty,” Aunt Ailsa told him. “It is of vital importance to the school. You must never fail, never lose that satchel.”
“I won’t.” One shipment to Merkland had been lost in the river many years prior, and the people of Alasdair still whispered about the hard times that consequently befell the town. Ailsa didn’t have to tell him twice to guard well the power stones.
Then again, in a school of Petralists where they were freely given so much, how much would he really have to worry?
Gisela gestured toward the western-facing window. Despite its grime, he easily spotted the distant castle. “The igneous school meets in the castle, but today they gather in the training field.”
“All four classes?” Ailsa asked. At the girl’s nod she said, “We saw them already warming up on our ride in.”
Ailsa handed him a piece of parchment with a list containing the names of the instructors and how many portions were allocated for their classes. “Make sure they sign acceptance. Sometimes they give us trouble, but would be worse for you if you leave without signatures.”
“I’ll be careful.” Their obvious worry and urgency filled him with apprehension. What would he face when he arrived at the classes?
Chapter 12
Connor rushed out of the Sculpture House and ran toward the castle along a wide path paved with smooth stones, driven by Gisela’s obvious worry about the late round. He passed the southern corner of the high-walled enclosure of the Rhidorroch and wished he had time to peek inside.
At the practice field he found not one class practicing with wooden swords, but four large groups of students dressed in Boulder battle leathers standing in formation on the far side of the field, facing him. The teachers stood in front of each class. He increased his pace, acutely aware of every disapproving eye watching his approach, and tried to draw confidence from the uniform he wore.
The teacher of the third group began yelling at him while he was still beyond earshot, and her railings buffeted his ears all the way in. She should have held back until he approached close enough to smell her bad breath and really appreciate the full impact of her anger. The woman, who was the only female Boulder teacher, had to be Professor Nandag. Connor had memorized the professor names before leaving in hopes that knowing might help ease some of their impatient anger. She was a heavyset woman with a gravelly voice that sounded like she chewed on her powder when not using it. Since she yelled the loudest, Connor decided to get that threat over with first and angled his approach toward her.
The professor standing to the left of the woman apparently realized Connor’s intention and strode forward several steps, his unhappy expression darkening further. He stood a little taller than Connor and wore tight-fitting leathers that lacked the shifting plates and myriad straps of battle armor. His perfectly sculpted muscles strained the limits of the tan leather shirt and, although his skin had not faded to gray, he was clearly tapping granite. He gestured with one hand, “To me, boy.”
Professor Nandag waved vigorously, “Get over here, boy. I’m tired of waiting.”
The tan-shirted professor brushed one hand through his thick black hair and made a dismissing gesture. “Ignore the old hag, boy, and bring me my portions.”
“Old hag?” Nandag rounded on the other professor. For a second, Connor thought she would strike, and he wondered how long the fight might last when he hadn’t even delivered their fresh granite yet. “How about I damage that pretty face of yours, Hector?”
The professor on the far side of Hector was a huge bear of a man, and he rolled his eyes at their argument. Connor got the sense it was a regular event.
“Enough of this,” the huge professor said. “We’re already late.” He joined Hector and Nandag facing Connor. “We will not tolerate late deliveries, boy.”
Connor stopped in front of him, although both Nandag and Hector looked on the verge of stepping forward and snatching the satchel off his shoulder. “I apologize, sir. The new resident sculptress just arrived this morning and found some confusion in the delivery schedule. It won’t happen again.”
The big professor grunted and beckoned toward his group. Three students came forward and accepted the portions as Connor extracted them. “You are Professor Todhar?” Connor asked to confirm the count.
“No, I am Todhar.” The last professor spoke for the first time as he joined the group. He stood about the same height as Connor, but with wider shoulders.
Connor winced. Fifty percent chance of getting that right, and he still messed up. So the bearish professor would be Professor Greim, who signed the parchment as soon as Connor completed counting out the last of his class portions and handed over the large teacher portion. Without another word, Greim turned and rejoined his class as his students began distributing the portions to their classmates.
Professor Nandag turned to summon some of her students, so Professor Hector stepped close to Connor and extended his hands. “This error will not repeat itself,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Make sure the new sculptress understands.”
“I will, Professor.” Connor hesitated for a second, expecting the man to summon his students to help, but he never did.
Instead, Professor Hector stood there impatiently, hands extended, as if wanting to carry all of the portions himself. So Connor obliged him and, as he produced each pouch, the professor snatched it out of his hands, held it for a second to study its weight, then shoved it into the wide thigh pockets of his leather pants. When Connor produced Hector’s teacher portion, he frowned. “Seems light.”
“The measurements are accurate,” Connor assured him. The professors could intimidate him in other things, but he would not accept any insinuation that the weights were wrong.
Professor Hector frowned and made his mark on the parchment. “If you’re going to err boy, do it on the side of generosity.”
Connor stared after Professor Hector as the teacher returned to his class and slowly began extracting the portions from his pockets and, with clear reluctance, handing them over to his students. For someone who received such generous rations of powder daily, he acted like a starving beggar. He should try quarrying his own stone and beating it to dust.
Professor Nandag berated him in a constant, running monologue even as she and her students accepted their portions and she signed the parchment. By the time she turned away, Connor’s ears were ringing from the verbal assault.
Professor Todhar received his portions stoically, but before he signed, he gave Connor a stern look. “You may only be the messenger, but you will bear the brunt of our displeasure.”
“I am sorry, sir,” Connor repeated.
The professor said, “I do not accept excuses, Son. However, I do believe in restitution.”
Connor’s heart sank. Was the professor going to beat him up right there in front of everyone, or have his class do it for him? He’d already seen how commoners were treated here, and such a punishment would barely bear noting by other nobles. Still, it seemed extreme.
Instead of hitting him, the professor said, “You will wait until after the group competition, and will join my class afterward. I require your service.”
“But sir,” Connor dared protest. “I have to finish my round.”
“Which class?”
“Basalt.”
“They’re taking tests this morning, so you have plenty of time to complete their delivery.”
Without waiting for a reply, the professor returned to his students. Almost immediately the classes spread out and took up positions on different sides of the field, all facing into the center. Connor moved to a low hill nearby to watch, curious to see the students perform, despite his nervousness over what the professor might do after the contest.
He was tempted to just slip away, but no doubt that would just anger Professor Todhar further. The sense of wonder Connor had felt when he first arrived at the Carraig was quickly fading to simple frustration. Barely a couple hours inside the castle compound and he had already managed to anger every granite teacher.
With the sound of a bugle, the contest began and all four classes surged toward the center of the practice field. Connor’s worries faded away under a rush of excitement. As he watched the armored students rushing to fight with wooden weapons, a flood of memories boiled into his mind.
Again he witnessed battles between deadly Petralists and Guardians around Alasdair. Again he watched as the town burned under Petralist powers. Again the fear and excitement and horror of those days washed through him as he re-lived those desperate conflicts in which he struggled to master enough of his powers to keep his family alive.
In the practice field, the student lines collided and wooden swords flashed. Students fought with dramatically different skills. Some looked almost competent enough to be real soldiers, while others flailed away like children trying to thresh wheat for the first time. Some of them dropped their wooden weapons that lacked any real power to damage Boulders and began grappling.
That reminded him of Captain Rory and Anika wrestling, and even with the benefit of time he couldn’t decide if they’d been fighting or embracing. As a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, he was surprised to hear his name called from behind him, barely heard over the din of the distant fighting.
Connor turned, and gaped in astonishment at the slender figure in a simple blue dress rushing toward him, thick blond hair streaming behind.
“Jean?”
Chapter 13
Jean threw herself into Connor’s arms, laughing with joy. Even as he lifted her off the ground and spun her in a circle, he could barely believe he wasn’t dreaming. But there could be no mistake. He’d known Jean all their lives, and loved her for as long as he could remember.
The feel of her slender waist under his hand triggered memories of Sogail dances and the countless hours of plotting against Hamish and Stuart to win the first kiss from her. She smelled of green fields and medicinal herbs from her grandmother’s house where she apprenticed as a healer. Her blue eyes sparkled as he set her down, and he remembered that night in the devastation of Alasdair when she confessed she loved him but could not promise to him because of his curse.
“Oh, Connor! It is so good to see you,” she laughed, although there was a lingering shadow of sadness in her gaze. He wondered if she was thinking of that night, of how everything had changed.
“How is it possible?”
How could she be at the Carraig in the center of Obrion? When he left the shattered town of Alasdair, she was helping the villagers treat their wounded and prepare for the long process of rebuilding. He didn’t care how impossible it was. She was a tangible link back to his home, and the sight of her filled him with singing joy, easing the ache of homesickness that had plagued him since he’d left.
“There’s so much to tell,” Jean agreed.
“How’s my family?”
“They’re fine. Everyone’s fine,” she assured him. “In fact, the rebuilding is going better than we ever hoped.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Seeing her was like visiting home, although he was surprised to find she no longer sparked the same desire she always had. She was like sunshine in his heart, but it was warm light of a dear friend or a sister, not the passion of a hoped-for romance. He’d grown up dreaming she’d promise to him, but his curse had smashed those dreams like a block of granite under his father’s hammer. Even the lingering sense of loss that they could never return to those simpler days wasn’t enough to dampen his good mood.
He laughed aloud. “I don’t even know where to start.” They were going to need to talk for a week.
Her smiled faded and she cupped his face in one of her hands, suddenly serious. “Connor, I’m so happy to see you, but I wish you hadn’t come.”
“What do you mean?” How could she know about what brought him to the Carraig?
She dropped her hand and glanced around, her expression worried. “You have to listen to me. Nothing is--”
A horn blared on the battlefield, interrupting. In contrast to the efficient discipline he’d witnessed from General Carbrey’s army on the slopes near Alasdair, it took several seconds for the students to halt. Teachers rushed onto the field, pushing through the milling ranks to crouch over a pair of students who lay unmoving on the ground. Most of the other students clustered around, making it difficult for two brown-robed healers to follow the professors and tend to the injured students.
“What were you saying?” Connor asked.
Jean retreated a step, her gaze still on the field. Connor turned to look again and spotted a burly student, one of the older ones, about twenty years old, waving at Jean, beckoning her to approach.
“I have to go,” she said, turning away.
“Wait.” Connor grabbed her hand. “What were you saying?”
“I can’t,” she said, looking afraid. The burly student started pushing through his classmates, heading for the hill where they stood. With a final squeeze of his hands she added, “There are too many secrets here. I’ll find you later. Be safe, Connor.”
Then she rushed away.
He stared, unable to make sense of the cryptic warning. Jean was the smartest person he’d ever known, and she possessed a rare courage. She’d helped rally the villagers of Alasdair and lead them to safety during the fighting. If something at the Carraig terrified her into silence, he should start running immediately.
If that was her intention, she had to know he’d never leave before chasing her down and making her tell him everything.
Before he could, an approaching student called out, “You! Round boy. Professor Todhar wants to see you.”
“I’m really not that round, you know.”
“Well you’ll be flat if you don’t hustle,” the student growled.
None of these Petralists had any sense of humor.
With one last glance after Jean, he headed down the hill to where Professor Todhar’s class assembled, puzzling over Jean’s strange actions. Only one thing was clear.
There was no way Jean’s presence at the Carraig was coincidence.
Chapter 14
When Connor arrived, Professor Todhar was preparing his class for another sparring drill. “Your performance on the field today left much to be desired,” he told the gathered students. “The few of you who bothered to keep your swords in hand looked like you forgot everything we’ve been practicing.”
“Excuse me, Professor,” a tall girl said, “but swords aren’t really that useful against Boulders.”
“Not the way you swing one,” he agreed, triggering a round of soft laughter.
“Why can’t we just focus on hammers?” a heavily muscled boy asked.
“Because you haven’t mastered the basic forms,” Professor Todhar said. “Listen to me. Not everything about being a Boulder is smashing and overwhelming force. If you max-tap granite and try to bull through every opponent, you’ll exhaust your strength and die young.”
Connor found himself nodding. Those were almost exactly the same words Aunt Ailsa had used to teach him. He was surprised to see many of the students looking openly doubtful. Nobles they might be, but he doubted any of them had seen battle. One of the first lessons Connor learned was the critical importance of managing powder stores and tap rate. Captain Ilse and her tiny band had soundly beaten Captain Rory and his hundred in part through careful leveraging of their powers. That and the fact that no one was ready for Verena’s unique abilities.
Professor Todhar assigned pairs for sparring practice, then called, “Catriona, to me.”
A plump girl of average height trotted over. Her brown hair was tied in a braid like most of the girls, and nothing in her face struck Connor as remarkable. Yet she carried herself with authority, and her dueling clothes were exceptionally fine, from her elaborately embroidered leather battle jacket to the mirror shine of her calf-length boots.
