Onyx Ridge's Arc

Chapter 11 of 11

Onyx barred the door after Juno left. He slept on the studio floor beside the statue. The foxling curled against his ribs. He woke at first light to the sound of something heavy walking in the yard. The steps did not hurry. They stopped outside his door. A fist hit the wood once. The bar jumped in its brackets. Onyx lifted it and opened the door. The god of stonework stood in the yard. He was taller than the doorframe. His skin was rough as quarry stone. Spiral horns curled back from his head. A belt of chisels and hammers hung at his waist. Onyx had carved his likeness twice for temple commissions. He had never expected to meet him. "Move," the god said. Onyx stepped aside. Slate ducked through the door. He filled the studio. The foxling flattened itself under the workbench and did not come out. Slate walked around the black statue once, slowly. He did not touch it. He looked at the crooked finger. He looked at the collarbone. He looked at the face. "You cut this from the black seam beyond the ridge," Slate said. "Yes." "Alone." "A woman carried it back for me. I was poisoned." Slate grunted. He drew a small chisel from his belt and set the tip against the statue's shoulder. He pushed. The chisel skipped off. He tried again with more weight behind it. The stone rang faintly and gave nothing. Slate lowered the chisel. Onyx kept his hands at his sides. His bandaged knuckles ached. He waited for the god to swing a hammer and end four months of work in one blow. Slate did not swing. "The authorities sent a hound," Slate said. "It broke a tooth. They will send worse. They asked me to break it myself, since a mortal made it and a mortal should not." "And?" Slate looked at him. The god's eyes were the color of wet slate. "I don't break good work," he said. "I make it. You cut every plane clean. The finger is honest. I've seen temple carvers spend their lives and never cut a finger that honest." He slid the chisel back into his belt. "I won't help you either," Slate said. "What comes next isn't stonework. It's politics. But when they come, tell them Slate saw it and put no mark on it. That will cost them something to argue with." He ducked out through the door. The yard shook once under his weight, then went quiet. Onyx stood in the doorway. The foxling crept out from under the bench and pressed against his leg. He understood what had just happened. A god had come to test his work and had walked away without a mark on it. The statue had passed a second trial.