Set in Stone Read Free

out sharply against the light of the rising sun.
    The road crested the first cliff about a thousand feet above the plateau, although the summit of Wick Tor still reared another mile higher. Here the road flattened and ran straight back along a bluff for a quarter mile to a cut that led down into Alasdair Quarry, the lifeblood of the town. There the Cutters chiseled precious Alasdair White from the flanks of the mountain.
    Perched right up against the edge of the cliff, the icy waters of Loch Sholto lay still as a mirror to his left, while Loch Ladhar, another flooded quarry of old, cut deep into the mountain not far beyond. Connor passed them and paused at the head of the game trail he'd follow into the mountains, and stared toward the distant quarry. Already occasional echoes of hammer blows reached his ears. Part of him longed to risk a visit, but he dare not.
    Connor rushed up the trail. He couldn't risk the quarry today, couldn't afford to push the limits of the Curse so close to the Sogail. Thinking of the Curse awakened it, and Connor shivered as it skittered along his body, just under the skin, like a hundred tiny insects. The itching intensified and he fought the urge to scratch.
    He wouldn't succumb today. Tomorrow at the Sogail he'd finally get to claim Patronage and take the first step toward gaining mastery over the Curse. Today he would hunt and celebrate the last day of the only life he'd ever known.
    Tomorrow . . . well, after tomorrow, nothing would ever be the same.

 
    Chapter 2
     
    Something heavy crashed through a dense stand of fir trees at the uppermost edge of the tree line. Connor paused fifty yards upslope of the trees, and drew an arrow from the hunting quiver at his hip. It sounded like something had spooked the herd of large mountain deer he'd tracked from the south side of the ridge since earlier this morning.
    He hadn't expected them to run back toward him. The slope where he stood above the tree line was mostly bare, rocky ground. Only a few large boulders offered partial cover. To his left, along the hillside, a long ridge of stone dropped five feet to a horizontal shelf that offered no cover at all. If the deer came back uphill, he'd have to take one down as soon as they broke into the open.
    Connor half-drew his bow and grinned at the challenge, but the crashing sounds intensified and his smile faded. Unless the entire herd was bolting together in the same direction, there was no way deer could make that noise.
    Maybe it was a bear. Connor had never taken a bear. Few Saor-Linn had. A kill like that was exactly what he was looking for. What a perfect way to celebrate the announcement of his Patronage and appointment as Guardian.
    Although the intensity of the Curse's itch just under his skin had grown all morning, he still felt strong. He'd be fine today, but he'd be lucky to make it to the Sogail at that rate.
    He'd concealed the existence of his Curse for so long, it seemed impossible tomorrow he'd finally get to reveal the secret and claim Patronage. He yearned for that moment of freedom. Never again would he have to choose debilitating sickness as punishment for reining in the destructive power of the Curse rather than granting it deadly release.
    He'd finally get to talk about it with Jean, and with Hamish.
    A huge form crashed through the last screen of underbrush into the open. It wasn't a bear. It was a torc.
    Where, by Tallan, had a torc come from? Connor wondered.
    The rare monster snorted and swung its thick, bony head from side to side, gouging furrows in the rocky soil with its wickedly curved tusks. No one in Alasdair had seen a torc in years. He'd heard they were big, scary creatures distantly related to the boars that roamed the slopes near town. The description utterly failed to capture this beast's magnificence.
    Hard, bony plates, almost like slabs of stone under its gray hide gave it an angular, menacing appearance. It pawed the ground with one thick leg capped with a