Set in Stone (74 page)

It was enough. The flames illuminated a wide area and Connor caught a reflected gleam from something below, something on the bottom. He clutched the rock tighter, grateful that he’d risked the precious fire. Within seconds, the wall before him changed to heavy iron bars framing a huge iron gate.

Before impact, he released the rock to slow his descent, and landed softly on a wide stone shelf that protruded eight feet from the wall at the foot of the gate. His boots sank about an inch in the muddy silt that lay on the shelf. He’d expected it to be deeper, although he shouldn’t be surprised at the lack of mud in the pure waters.

Connor wanted to shout for joy, but all he could do was grin with lips clenched tight around the life-giving quartzite.

He’d reached the bottom.

In Alasdair, Keith hobbled into town leaning heavily on Cinaed. Sharp pain stabbed through his leg at each step from where the cursed boy struck him. His limbs ached, and he still shook from the remembered terror of his out-of-control flight into the loch.

They stopped in the deserted town center and gathered their three youngest children around them. Stuart may have betrayed them, but the boy was old enough to suffer the consequences of his stupidity.

Cinaed had related her brave attempts to save the village. Keith hugged her close, and pride for her helped wash away some of the aches.

He shouted into the silence, "We're still here! I flooded the quarry and my wife defended the town. We alone are worthy!"

Unbroken silence was all that answered.

Chapter 93

Connor inspected the gate. The monstrous thing, bigger than he’d expected, clung to the smooth wall, held in place by a heavy frame. The square, reinforced gate spanned ten feet, with grooved, iron runners extending up the sides of the frame. In times past the door could be slid up those runners to open the chute and allow large blocks of cut granite to slide through.

Thick rust coated every surface, but the gate still appeared sound. Only the bottom right corner looked frayed. That was probably where the water was slipping through.

Breathing felt more difficult, as if he’d been underwater for hours, or as if the quartzite was running out. He pushed the flash of panic aside. It wouldn’t take that long. He should have plenty of time to finish.

"I can still see the fire," Hamish said. The red-headed young man knelt at the edge of the loch beside Verena, peering into the darkness. "He’s doing something."

Stuart, who stood near the edge of the cliff, shook his head and frowned. "I still don’t get how he can have fire underwater."

"He's using the marble somehow," Hamish said.

Verena added, "He seems to be moving around."

Stuart glanced over the cliff edge again, checking the stream for the expected burst of water. "He’d better hurry. The Grandurians are about to start up the road."

They peered again into the depths where the eerie flickering fire still glowed, while Hendry stood nearby, both hands holding the end of the lifeline they'd use to pull Connor back up.

"Hurry, Connor," Hamish whispered as a growing fear chilled his heart.

Connor dug his hands into the silt at the base of the gate, feeling for hand holds. It was no use, the gate fit tight against the stone, as if sunk into a groove. So Connor stood and grasped a heavy crossbar at waist level. Bracing his legs, he heaved.

The gate did not budge. Connor banged a fist against it and felt, more than heard, the dull boom. He had expected to be able to lift the gate, hadn't considered the possibility he couldn't move it.

He inspected the rails that the gate would slide up if he could move it. That was the problem. Even strengthened by granite, he'd never overwhelm the resistance of all the rust built up there. He didn’t have time to chip it free. He’d run out of air, or the Grandurians would pass the stream, or he'd run out of marble and freeze to death.

Marble! That was it.

He grasped the left rail with both hands and increased his tap rate. A firestorm blasted through him, shaking him with its intensity, a searing heat on the verge of melting his innards. No wonder Captain Aonghus seemed more than a little crazy. Only a madman would use marble often.

Connor focused all that burning energy through his hands. White-hot power burned along his arms and blasted out his palms in twin streams that enveloped the iron rail and blazed so bright he had to look away. He held the rail for ten long seconds, rubbing free the rust as waves of fire left the iron gleaming, clean and red-hot. Water boiled around him, easing the constant chill of the loch as it encircled him in a rapidly cooling cocoon of warmth.

He reluctantly left the warmer water and swam to the other rail and repeated the process.

Inside his mouth, the marble melted away, leaving his mouth tasting of ash. He'd run out of fire in seconds without more power to replenish the heat already burning through him.

Connor planted his feet, and grasped the reinforced crossbar again. The flames licking along his body and holding the icy cold of the deep waters at bay now burned noticeably dimmer.

He refused to think about what would happen if this gamble failed. Instead, he braced his legs, tapped the granite power of his Curse, and threw it all into one convulsive heave.

Nothing happened.

"What’s he waiting for?" Stuart asked, eyes locked on the long drop. The Grandurian soldiers, led by Anika, had just reached the small stream where it crossed the road.

"I don’t know," Hamish said, his voice tight with concern.

Verena clenched the rope that connected them with Connor so tight her fingers shone white against it.

Hendry whispered, "Come on, son. Do it, so we can get you out of there."

Connor heaved, his body shaking with the strain and his lungs burning with the need for more air than the quartzite could supply. Spots danced in front of his eyes and he feared he might pass out.

Then with a terrifying groan, the gate lurched upward a foot. Connor lost his hold, his feet slipped in the thin layer of silt, and for a second he floated free next to the gate. Then a terrific force yanked him down onto the shelf so hard the quartzite popped out of his mouth and disappeared in the gloom. Water tore against him in a mighty current, roaring so loud it drowned out thought, and slammed him against the gate so hard it would have broken bones if not for the protection of granite strength.

Only then did he understand. Pressed against the gate, with his legs sticking under and through the gap he’d made, and water rushing past on either side, he finally grasped the terrible flaw in his plan.

With the gate open, the pressure of three hundred feet of water had a release. The fierce current was like an angry beast dragging at his limbs, trying to push him through the gate, down the chute, and out over the long drop to the plateau floor.

His legs were jammed in tight beneath the gate. The awful truth chilled him more than the icy waters of the loch.

He could not escape.

He was going to die.