Steadying the block with his left hand, Hendry slammed the heavy diorite hammer down onto the granite block in a slow, steady, rhythm. The blow struck true and precious stone dust and small stone chips flew in every direction, only to be caught by the mesh ringing the table.
The sound reverberated through the room like thunder, and faded to a low buzzing as the hammer, still seated on the block, blurred for a second. Sheets of granite dust broke off and slid away.
Connor grabbed tufts of loose cotton from a bin near the door, twisted them into his ears, then pulled a thick woolen band over them. The ear protection reduced the thunder to a muffled thump.
Connor watched his father process the stone with conflicting emotions. He'd spent countless hours as a boy dreaming of the day he'd take up the hammer and become the next Ashlar. Now that dream lay shattered like a block of processed granite, and he fought to fill the void left behind with thoughts of becoming Guardian. The mystery surrounding Guardians enhanced the excitement, but made it hard to sustain.
Hendry raised the hammer again, but paused to greet Connor with a smile, then nod toward a pile of large empty canvas sacks on a nearby table. Connor fetched one while Hendry continued pounding at the stone block. Within minutes he ground it to powder, then carefully brushed stone dust from his shaved arms and rattled the mesh screen to ensure no particles were lost.
Connor helped him detach the screen from the table and, while his father went for a drink of water, he scooped stone dust into the sack with a short handled steel shovel. When he'd cleared most of the dust, he used a fine-bristled brush to carefully gather every last grain.
When all was gathered, he ran his hands over the smooth steel surface. Some grit remained, so he brushed a thick, orange eoin feather across the table. After shaking the feather out over the open sack, he tied it securely.
Two workmen appeared and carried the sack to a scale near the door. They weighed it and marked the number on a tally sheet next to the weight of the original stone. Hendry joined them, confirmed the weight, and all three made their marks at the edge of the sheet. The workers then hefted the full sack and carried it out toward the barge.
Connor fetched another heavy granite block for his father and placed it on the scale. It weighed in at almost thirteen stone, almost exactly his weight. He marked the number in the ledger and Hendry confirmed the weight. Then Connor carried the stone to his father's worktable.
He picked up the diorite hammer and hefted its familiar weight. His family had held the prestigious vocation of Ashlar for four generations.
Until now.
Even as he longed to find a way to take his place as a Cutter and future Ashlar, the itching of the Curse intensified. He hid his frustration and placed the hammer on the table next to the block. He would never live the simple, honorable life of his father.
Isolated in silence by his situation as much as by the ear protection, he wordlessly helped his father replace the mesh screen around the table. Then he stood back as his father pushed his arms through the holes and took up the hammer that Connor would never wield. His father began pounding the new block in the same slow rhythm.
Between blows, Hendry glanced over at Connor and shouted, "Good hunt?" His voice sounded through the ear protection like he was talking underwater.
"I killed a torc!"
Hendry grinned as wide as Connor. "Congratulations, son. Those monsters are dangerous."
Not as dangerous as me.
A worker stepped into the wide central doors of the Powder House and shouted, "Ashlar, the foreman wants that block finished double-quick. This shipment can't be late."
Hendry nodded, and after the man left, he said to Connor, "Keith is riding everyone hard today, stones take the man."
He slammed the hammer on the block of granite. It struck off-center and shattered the entire left side where he held it steady with his free hand. He grimaced, put down the hammer, wiped his arms free of granite dust, and withdrew them.
"What's wrong?" Connor asked.
"Sprained my hand." Hendry carefully massaged his left hand. "Never strike in anger, son. It'll mar your work every time. I've just given myself a painful afternoon."
His father was always trying to give him counsel like that, but Connor's mind turned back to when he Curse-punched the torc.
Had he struck in anger, or out of a need for self-preservation?
As Hendry grimaced again and turned back toward the table, Connor placed a hand on his arm. "Wait. Let me do it for you."
"Connor, you know you can't."
"Why not?" The question was so ridiculous he expected his father to laugh it away even while he desperately wanted him to say yes.
Hendry gave him one of his long-suffering looks and said, "Son, now's not a good time to start this. I didn't touch this hammer until I'd been a Cutter for years."
"I don't have that much time. After tomorrow . . ." He glanced around to ensure they were still alone. After tomorrow, the entire town would know he'd never be a Cutter.
Hendry frowned. "I know, son."
"Please, just once, let me try it. I'll never get another chance."
Hendry glanced around as well, then nodded. "Just one try, then I have to get back to work."
Connor tried to hide his surprise. The Sogail was a time of gifts, but he'd never imagined he'd get such an amazing one.
Before his father could change his mind, he rolled up his sleeves and stepped up to the table. His arms did not fill the openings in the mesh screen the way his father's did, nor were they shaved, but none of that mattered.
Connor reverently took up the hammer and hefted it. Hendry moved close to his side. "Start easy."
Connor grinned, raised the hammer and slammed it down onto the granite block. It struck solid, and the vibration rattled all the way up his arm. Even though he'd swung hard, it sounded weak compared to his father's. A few flakes of dust drifted off the stone, but nothing more. The hammer did not vibrate the way it did when his father used it.
"Strength isn't everything, son. The hammer does the work."
Connor frowned. "I don't understand."
"It's hard to explain. It's something you feel here." Hendry tapped his chest. "Like a fire in your chest. That connection somehow unlocks the hammer's strength and breaks down the stone a hundred times faster."
Connor stared down at the ancient hammer. His father had never spoken so openly about his work as Ashlar. Only proven apprentices learned such secrets. He ran his left hand over the worn double head of the hammer and could not help but think about his Curse.
It had grown since he'd entered the Powder House and begun working with his father, as if intent on thwarting him, preventing him from tasting the life of Ashlar.
Well, he wouldn't let it win, not today, no matter the cost. Connor raised the hammer and struck the stone again. Again the blow felt weak, so he tried to mimic his father's regular, measured cadence.
Hendry gave him an encouraging smile but said, "Don't feel bad, son, it can take a long time to find the connection, and not everyone can do it."
Connor struck the block again, and poured everything he had into the blow. The block rang from the impact, and a burning energy suddenly raced up into his arm from the hammer, like lightning in his veins.
"I feel it, dad!" he exclaimed.
"I know you want to, son, but I really need to get back to work."
"No, I really feel it!"
Connor embraced that lightning-like feeling and slammed the hammer down onto the block again, willing the hammer to respond. That energy flared through him, and the hammer seemed to blur in his hands just before it hit the stone.
Then it struck, and the stone exploded.
Dust and stone chips rattled the fine mesh screen, and the sound pounded at Connor's ears, despite his ear protection. Hendry shouted in surprise and covered his own ears, while Connor stared at the cloud of dust that filled the area inside the mesh and obscured the tabletop.
He exchanged a startled look with his father and laughed. He did it! He'd proven once and for all that he could be Ashlar. If not for the Curse, he could have done it. He wanted to shout with exultant joy.
Connor raised the hammer high, but as it emerged from the dust cloud, he gaped. One end of the double-headed diorite hammer ended in a jagged stump.
Hendry gasped, and Connor met his father's horrified gaze. He dropped the hammer and stepped away from the table. Hendry ripped the mesh screen away, and granite dust billowed out into the room.
Connor gasped, "Dad, what are you doing?"
"It's riprap to me, son."
Connor winced at his father's words. For him to say the precious block meant nothing to him right now drove home the severity of the situation.
Hendry retrieved the hammer, and the two of them stood together as he slowly turned it in his hand.
Connor finally found his voice and said, "Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."
Hendry shook his head. "It's not your fault, son. You weren't ready. I knew better. It's my fault."
"But I felt it," Connor protested. "I don't understand."
"Nor do I."
The dust cleared enough for Connor to see the table top. No trace of the granite block remained. Tiny chips of granite lay piled against the collar where they'd been flung up against the screen, and white granite dust lay piled almost to the top of the collar.
In the center of the granite powder rested half a dozen ragged diorite chunks, all that remained of the hammer head. Connor picked up one that looked blackened, as if burned. It felt somehow lighter than it should. The sight of the diorite pieces seemed unreal.
In one blow, he'd processed an entire block of granite.
In one blow, he'd broken the Ashlar's hammer.
Should he shout with the joy of having connected with the hammer, or hide in shame for what he'd done?
The hammer should have lasted for many more years. He could scarce comprehend its loss.
"What in Tallan's name?"
The same worker who had called to them a few minutes ago stood in the door. He stared at the granite dust scattered around the table, and then at the broken hammer, and then spun and raced away.
Hendry grimaced. "Let me do the talking, son."
In half a minute Keith, the foreman, charged into the Powder House, followed by every worker from the blocking yard.
"What happened," Keith demanded.
"You're not blind. You see as well as any what happened."
"How?"
Hendry shrugged. "Probably a lot like how a chisel breaks."
Keith glared. He was a giant of a man, a full head taller than Hendry, and half again as thick. He was a legend among the Cutters, and had held every cutting record for the past decade. At least, he had until he broke his diorite chisel two years ago in a competition against Hendry.
Keith pursed his lips. "So you broke your hammer. How does that justify this mess?" He gestured at the screen tossed aside with granite particles still clinging to it, and to the dust and flakes of precious granite scattered around the table.
"I'll clean it up."
"You bet you will. Any discrepancy in the weight will come out of your pay."
"I said I'll deal with it."
Keith grunted, and started to turn away. Then he paused and stepped closer to Connor. "How'd you get granite on your arms, boy?"
Connor glanced down, and for the first time noticed the particles of granite covering his arms up to his shoulders. Before he could think of a reply, Hendry said, "Leave off, Keith. I'll clean it up."
Keith rounded on Hendry. "You let this sick, useless whelp of yours try your hammer, didn't you?" The accusation triggered a round of murmured oaths from the other workers.
"You'll not talk about my son like that."
"Answer me."
"I broke my hammer. That's more than enough."
Keith barked a hard laugh. "You did, didn't you? You couldn't bear that tomorrow Lord Gavin will assign him a vocation, and it won't be Cutter. And the unworthy sickling broke it."
"Insult my son again, and I'll call you out tomorrow."
Murmurs ran through the crowd again, and Keith laughed aloud. "You wouldn't last half a minute."
He was probably right. Hendry was a powerful man, but no one had ever held their own against Keith.
Hendry looked unfazed. "Perhaps."
Keith snorted. "Too bad council members are barred from duels."
"You always find an excuse."
"You boulder-brained son of a pedra," Keith cursed and grabbed Hendry's collar, his other meaty fist cocked back to deliver a blow.
Hendry raised the hammer in turn, unafraid.
Instead of striking, Keith pushed Hendry back. "Clean up this mess. We have eight blocks to process today. You better hope that broken hammer holds up."