Sir Aldric Graves's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The stone at the watchtower was good, and it would stay there until Aldric found a beast to haul it. He had no coin. He counted what he carried and found only his sword, his belt, and the silver spurs. He had worn them since his knighting. They caught the light even now, clean where the rest of him was dust. Gareth watched him turn them in his hands. "A farmer three hours east keeps a draft ox," Gareth said. He drove his chisel into a fence post to test the wood. "Broad as a wall. Pulls a plow through clay. That beast could move your stone." "He will not lend it for nothing," Aldric said. "No," Gareth said. "He will not." They walked east until the sun stood high. The farmer met them at his gate. Behind him stood the ox, taller than a man at the shoulder, its brown hide thick over heavy muscle. It chewed and watched them with slow eyes. Aldric felt the weight of the animal just standing there. He asked to hire it. The farmer named a price in coin. Aldric had none, and he said so plainly. The farmer began to turn away. Aldric took off the spurs and held them out. The silver shone against his palm. The engraving was still sharp. "These are worth more than your ox," Aldric said. "Take them. Keep the beast until I bring it back." The farmer lifted one spur and turned it in the light. He bit the metal. He looked at Aldric's face, then at the road they had come from, and he nodded. "Bring it back sound," the farmer said. "Or the spurs are mine and the ox stays lost to you both." Aldric roped the ox and led it out the gate. Gareth said nothing for a long while. The animal walked easy beside them, its breath loud in the still air. "You gave up your spurs," Gareth said. "I gave up nothing I need," Aldric said. But his hand went to his empty heels, and he felt where the leather straps had worn the boot smooth. They reached the watchtower near dusk. Aldric backed the ox to the largest block and looped the rope around it. He set his hand on the animal's shoulder and pushed it forward. The rope went taut. The stone scraped, then slid. It moved. He stared at the track the block cut in the dirt. For the first time the chapel felt possible. Then he looked at the beast, breathing hard already, and at the pile of blocks still waiting. One stone had moved a single pace. The chapel lay a full day's walk away. The ox could pull, but it needed to eat, and it needed to rest, and he had traded his last thing of worth to borrow it for a debt that had no end date he could name.