Set in Stone (8 page)

Connor looked furious, and Hamish tried his best to cheer up his friend. People saw Hamish as a goofy, clumsy kid, and he used that appearance to his advantage. Connor's anger faded as they ascended the road up to the plateau and the manor house.

Hamish couldn't stop thinking about the Sogail. There would be so much food! His appetite had blossomed in recent months, and he never felt full. Besides, he loved to taste new things.

He expected to be assigned the same vocation as his father, working in the quarry at the lift that lowered the rough-cut stones down to the blocking yard. He couldn't wait for the official announcement.

"Connor, what vocation do you think you'll be assigned tomorrow?"

They used to dream about the Saorsa and talk about different vocations all the time. However, as the day drew near, Connor had shown less enthusiasm for the topic.

Now Connor glared, and Hamish realized his stupidity. Connor would never be named Cutter, would never apprentice to become the next Ashlar. Hamish had assumed his friend was reconciled to that fact. Connor certainly seemed to enjoy hunting, and the town would feast on more fresh meat during the Sogail than they had in years.

Then again, maybe Connor wasn't entirely ready to leave the dream of Cutter behind. Maybe bringing it up today, on top of the theft of the oven, wasn't such a good idea.

Then Connor surprised him. "Listen, Hamish. Tomorrow at the Sogail something big is going to happen."

"Like what?"

Connor paused, but then finished lamely, "Well, something you've never seen before."

Hamish chuckled. "Like maybe you'll finish a dance without stepping on Jean's toes."

"Eat rocks."

They crossed the wide expanse of the plateau, covered with thick grass, kept cropped short by a herd of goats and cows tended by some of the slave children. The manor house sat two-thirds of the way across the plateau, its main entrance facing north toward the quarry, the source of the lord's wealth.

The manor house stood only fifty yards from, and parallel to, the steep western edge of the plateau that dropped sharply to the Lower Wick. Stables, barns and sheds clustered around the eastern and southern sides of the manor, with fenced pastures and gardens set farther out. A few mature trees dotted the plateau, with a thin strip of forest clinging to the slope on the eastern side.

To the untrained eye, the lowest level of the manor might look to be made of precious Alasdair White, although Hamish could see the inferior grade of the stone. This was grout, cast-off waste deemed unworthy, generally due to veins of quartz or other mixed stone content. Above the grout, the manor rose in three stories of field stone and wood, capped with a crenellated parapet, as if it had dreams of one day becoming a fortified keep.

Long beds of flowers flanked the road. Lady Isobel loved her flowers, every conceivable variety that could be coaxed into growing in the harsh climate. A small garden with a stone fountain carved in the likeness of a man holding aloft a great hammer stood facing the main entrance. The road ended there, circling the garden where the fountain splashed loud in the otherwise quiet air.

As they skirted the self-important main entrance with its twelve-foot doors and flanking columns, Hamish pointed at the fountain.

"Remember last summer when you dared me to bathe in that?"

Connor laughed. "Should've remembered the women's circle was meeting that night."

"I think you did it on purpose."

Connor grinned. "You should have seen your face when they found you sitting up on that hammer in your smallclothes!"

Hamish shivered. "I still have nightmares."

The boys rounded the tower at the eastern corner and headed along the side of the manor. High above, the wooden central tower reared thirty feet above the manor's roof. The long east side of the building was far plainer, despite the three half-towers that bulged from the wall at regular intervals.

Lady Isobel met them at the kitchen entrance, a simple but wide wooden door positioned halfway down the eastern wall. The sight of her snuffed out their good humor.

Not young anymore, Lady Isobel dyed her graying hair an unnatural shade of black that bore no resemblance to her natural color. The dye tasted like vinegar mixed with mud, and tended to bleed onto the collars of the frilly dresses she wore, staining them with streaks of dark green. Hamish never understood how the dye could turn her hair black and her clothes green.

Today she abandoned her normal veneer of superior calm and clapped her hands together with delight when she saw the Heatstone oven. "Very good. Bring it right into the kitchen."

Instead of leaving them to the work, she hovered, giving useless instructions and nearly tripping them with the long hem of her dark blue silk dress as they labored to unload the oven without dropping it. It was like she didn't realize she was gleefully stealing from Connor's family. Or, more likely, she just didn't care. She was nobility, they were Linn, commoners with no recourse.

Hamish stumbled and nearly dumped the oven on her. She yelped, snapped at him to watch his feet, and shifted around behind Connor. As they staggered through the door and into the manor's expansive kitchen, he wished he hadn't caught the load. Breaking her legs would surely land him in lots of trouble, but people were used to him dropping things.

It would've been worth the risk.

Lady Isobel turned a slow circle in the center of the room, tapping her lips with the small wand she liked to pretend was a grand scepter when she gave orders. "This will never do. Wherever are we going to put it?"

"We could just bring it back to town," Hamish suggested.

She glared, and Hamish decided not to face her on an empty stomach again. He glanced around for Aileen, the cook. She always radiated a happy contentment, and made the kitchen a haven from the rest of the manor. She treated the boys like sons, sneaking fruit and sweetbreads to them. At least she would be the one using the oven, not Lady Isobel.

As if his thoughts summoned her, Aileen emerged from the large pantry carrying a sack of flour. She grinned when she saw them and brushed a lock of her brown hair out of her chubby face. Her blue eyes sparkled when she smiled, and Hamish found himself grinning back at her.

"Place that over here, boys," Aileen said, and moved to a sturdy table standing to one side of the deep hearth.

While they rested, Lady Isobel inspected the oven. She ran greedy hands over the carved pink exterior and exclaimed at its gentle warmth. She opened the matching marble door and held her hand there, savoring the steady heat that flowed over her fingers.

Hamish could not tear his eyes away. There was no marble like that anywhere near Alasdair. He wondered how it tasted.

He had always loved tasting things, and preferred to have something in his mouth all the time. Connor and Stuart teased him about it, but he didn't understand why they spent so much time with their mouths not occupied. He loved new tastes, and last year made a startling discovery.

Stones tasted great.

Not all of them, but every once in a while he'd suck on a stone that burst with flavor. He hadn't figured out why yet, but the mystery of it drove him to constant research. Connor thought him daft and refused to believe any stone tasted like anything but dirty rocks. Then again, he often refused the breadsticks or other snacks Hamish carried in his pockets.

Hamish couldn't figure out why.

"This is magnificent," Lady Isobel said. She closed the oven door and beamed at Connor, "I might even send a letter thanking your Aunt for such a wondrous gift. I bet I'm the first lady anywhere in High Lord Dougal's realm to obtain one of these."

Connor balled his hands into fists and stared at the floor, and Hamish considered tripping and falling onto Lady Isobel. He'd practiced the move often enough that no one acted surprised any more. He could strategically fall down just about anywhere.

Aileen said, "My lady, your afternoon tea is ready in your sitting room."

"Very well." Lady Isobel swept toward one of four doors that led from the kitchen, the one that would take her through the formal dining room. She paused in the doorway and said, "Aileen, I expect something grand for dinner tonight to celebrate."

Aileen curtsied, and Lady Isobel left without a backward glance. Aileen frowned after her, and then pulled Connor into her arms.

"Oh my boy, I am so sorry."

Connor let her hug him for a moment, but made a valiant effort to conceal his anger. She finally released him and fetched a couple of sweetbread pastries from a cupboard. Hamish popped the entire thing in his mouth and savored the explosion of taste. Connor ate with better manners, but Hamish couldn't help it. Aileen's pastries rivaled even those of Neasa, the town baker, and Hamish had sampled enough of her pastries to know.

While they ate, Aileen said, "I need a few things from the basement. I'll return in a moment."

"Do you need any help?" Hamish asked. They would do anything for her.

"No, dear. I'll only be a moment." After she left, Connor sat on one of the long tables in the middle of the room and stared glumly at the oven.

Hamish suppressed the urge to sneak another pastry. Aileen would know, and he would never risk her wrath. He would have snitched something lying on the counter, but Aileen kept her kitchen immaculate.

Rows of counters crowded the edges of the room while three long tables faced the wide fireplace with its built-in oven that took up half of the far wall. Shelves and cupboards clung to every vertical surface, filled with bottles, boxes, and cans containing the myriad ingredients Aileen used to craft her delicious feasts. Rows of pots and pans hung from hooks in the ceiling, and gleamed in the early afternoon sunlight that streamed through the large window.

Hamish approached the oven and started tracing one of the carvings. "Hey, Connor, tomorrow at the Sogail, I bet I'm going to win . . ."

He stared down at the oven in wonder, and forgot to finish the sentence. This stone felt different. More than smooth, more than warm from its inner heat, it thrummed against his fingers.

"Can't think of one thing you can beat me at, eh?" Connor joked.

Hamish no longer listened, but pressed both hands against the warm surface of the oven. The feel of the stone against his hands triggered a thrill of recognition. He'd caught flickers of this feeling from some of the rocks he tasted, but nothing so clear. He leaned close and put his ear against the oven. Then he licked it.

The explosion of taste, like spices dancing across his tongue, shamed everything he'd ever tasted in his life, and he gasped. "Wow. It's amazing."

"What is?"

"This." Hamish licked the oven again and pressed his forehead against the stone. As his skin made contact, he sensed something beyond the spectacular taste.

"What are you doing?"

"I can feel it. . . feel the heat."

Connor snorted. "Stick your tongue through the door. You'll feel it a lot better."

"Not that heat. I can feel, I don't know, it's like . . . come taste it."

"You're the only one who thinks rocks taste like anything but rocks."

"This one's different. It's spicy."

"Really?" Connor loved spicy food more than anyone Hamish knew, and would eat fire roots raw. No one else in town could, but he loved them. He'd love this.

Connor approached the far side of the oven and placed a hand on its warm side.

"Go on," Hamish urged. "Try it."

Connor licked the oven and then groaned. "I can't believe you talked me into this. It tastes like warm rock."

Hamish frowned in turn. "I'm telling the truth. I've never tasted anything like it." He licked it again and savored the explosive zest of it.

He'd never felt anything like this. Other rocks paled in comparison. Beyond the taste, behind the thrumming, something deep inside the stone had been fundamentally altered.

"What are you doing?"

"It's . . . like the heat is trapped in the stone and somehow they've opened it a crack to let some of it out."

"It's an oven. The heat has to stay inside, or it doesn't work."

"Don't be a pebble-brain." Hamish licked the oven again.

"Do you have to do that?"

"It helps me think."

"I think you've thought enough. I want to get out of here."

"Just a second. I can taste it."

Hamish gasped as the truth struck. Somehow he could feel deep inside the stone, all the way to the source of that crack that the heat was bubbling out through.

"What is it?"

"I'll show you." He barely contained his growing excitement as he felt awkwardly for that fissure inside the stone.

"I don't think you should . . ."

Then he found it, and pulled against it. He didn't really understand what he was doing, could barely comprehend the non-physical nature of it. In the quarry, they hit things with hammers, but this was more a reaching out with the mind, a tugging of the consciousness against this ethereal lid that held the crack shut.