The Dark Ability (14 page)

Once, his father had been able to acquire huge nuggets of lorcith, large enough to make platters or bowls, all of which the Elvraeth eagerly bought. Over the last year, however, the cost to acquire such deposits from the mining guild had nearly become prohibitive. Now his father only bought when he had commissions lined up, and those were rare. But after working in the mines, the only reason he had as to why lorcith production had diminished, especially with as much of the ore as he felt hidden in the walls, was that someone
wanted
it that way. But now that he’d abandoned his apprenticeship, that wasn’t his concern.

Rather than risk harming one of the master smiths and gaining the attention of the guild, it was better to Slide to the mines.

Taking a deep breath, he sighed, dreading what he needed to do. There was really no other way to do it, though. No way that would keep the others from harm.

He Slid.

This was the first time he appeared in the healer’s home without an injury, but his neck itched where the stitching pulled his skin together, healing slowly. He would have to return soon to have the stitches removed, but this was not the time for that.

The same small fire crackled in the hearth. The scented air smelled of honey and flowers, reminding him of Jessa. He felt a pang of guilt that he had deceived her by not sharing how he would acquire lorcith. The small cot was folded and pushed against the wall. A plush rug that Rsiran hadn’t noticed before was woven in a circular pattern that drew the eye outward and lay in front of the fire. Small shelves lined either wall.

He scanned for his pick and hammer, wondering if the healer had thrown them out. He hated coming in this way, knowing it would have been better to simply knock rather than sneak in, but justified his decision since he was only reclaiming what was his.

“I’m not sure I can heal you again.”

Rsiran spun. The healer sat on a small wooden chair. The faded stain that made it look worn and comfortable reminded him of the chair his father always preferred. Her dark hair was still twisted in a knot on her head, and the smile on her face deepened the wrinkles around her eyes.

“I’m not injured this time.”

She stood slowly, pushing herself up and stepping carefully around the chair, showing her age. Della looked at him with her deep green eyes, her mouth thinned to a line, and sighed. “No. I believe you are not. But still you place yourself at risk.”

Rsiran wondered how much she knew. Had Brusus shared his plans with her, or was she simply a Reader? If she was, he hadn’t felt her trying to crawl through his mind, nothing like he did when he was around Jessa.

“I can help them.”

She tilted her head and looked at him. “So you have made a choice, then?”

“I tried with my family…”

“So you have chosen another.”

Rsiran shrugged. “They’re friends. I can help them,” he repeated.

“That does not change the fact that you put yourself at risk.”

“I think they would do the same for me.” Rsiran had not been around them long, but Shael made it clear when Rsiran first saw the smithy that Brusus was reaching beyond what was probably safe for him.

“That they would. They’re good people. But still you don’t fully trust them.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He turned away guiltily. Jessa, at least, deserved to hear the truth. He tried to make it look as if he was simply looking around Della’s room, staring at the small window that ran along the side street. The curtains were pulled slightly, letting a small salty breeze blow in.

She stepped up to him and set strong hands on his neck, turning him so she could see his injury. She grunted as she ran her fingers along the wound. “I think you know exactly what I mean. Maybe in time you will learn to trust.”

He felt her pulling on his skin, as if plucking at the wound, and winced. “I trust—”

Rsiran wasn’t sure exactly what he would say. That he trusted the healer enough to keep coming back? That he feared losing his new friends by revealing his dark ability, the ability that he somehow couldn’t keep from using? That he wasn’t sure who he was anymore?

“There,” she said. “Stitching is out. I am surprised you have healed so well, especially as badly as the poisoning had set.”

“Thank you.”

She pushed on his shoulders and turned him around. “Promise that you will be careful. I know what you think you need to do, that you think you must help your friends. And for all that he has done for me, I would never tell you not to help Brusus. But use your ability if you find trouble. Or it finds you.”

She shuffled over to one of her shelves, pulled his pick and hammer off the shelf and handed them to him. “Remember someone there who wanted to harm you.”

He shook his head. “It had nothing to do with me. They wanted the ore.”

Her brow furrowed, wrinkles deepening. “If you are so certain, then why risk injury again by returning?”

“The other option is worse.”

She sniffed. “Are you certain you have considered all other options, including doing nothing? I do not want to see you hurt again. More than that, I do not want to see Brusus suffer.”

Rsiran blinked. “That is why I must do this.”

The healer turned to another shelf and picked something up before handing it to him. It was a long, slender cylinder made of solid metal. A slider bar ran along one side of it.

“What is it?”

“Light for you in the darkness. Were your Sight greater, you would have no need. As it is, use this to keep the shadows at bay. Perhaps it will keep you safe.”

Rsiran tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

“I will pray that the Great Watcher turns his gaze upon you,” she said solemnly.

Rsiran nodded and turned away from Della, not certain he wanted the Great Watcher to notice him. Then he Slid to Ilphaesn.

T
he stale air
hit Rsiran immediately, the bitterness of lorcith dust seeming to hang in it, biting at his lungs as he took a deep breath. He staggered forward, a wave of weakness washing over him. Would the weakness following a Slide ever disappear? Perhaps if he practiced it like Della suggested he would eventually grow accustomed to its effects.

He targeted this Slide to enter the upper level of the mine. Since he still didn’t have perfect control, sometimes with a Slide he had the potential to overshoot, especially when traveling long distances, like from Elaeavn to Ilphaesn. Shorter distances were easier to pinpoint, but he didn’t dare Slide straight to the deepest part of the mine or else he might end up buried in rock, unable to Slide out.

He wasn’t sure how late it was, but the sleeping cavern was quiet. An orange glow from the lantern spilled over toward where he stood near the entrance. The miners murmured softly, broken every so often by a burst of laughter before quickly dying down. Behind him, the entrance was barred, and a heavy lock kept the miners trapped inside. No one moved along the mining tunnels at this time of night; the only sound was the distant, steady tapping.

He swallowed a mouthful of dry air and steadied himself, readying for another Slide.

As he began, there came a movement of shadows, and he hurried forward, Sliding out of the upper part of the mine and into the deeper, darker heart of Ilphaesn.

Rsiran stood motionless as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Gradually, the darkness faded but not enough for him to see exactly where he stood.

Had the Slide taken him as planned, he should be near the end of the farthest mine. He stretched out his hand and felt along the wall. The rough stone was cool and damp under his hand. Rsiran took a tentative step, sliding his feet along the floor, following the curve.

Satisfied he was where he had intended to emerge, he stood and listened.

As usual for night, the steady tapping echoed through the mines, but sounded distant. He didn’t want to be near whatever it was making the sound, uncertain as to its source.

The lorcith called to him, like a song sung under water. Leaving his hand on the wall, he moved it until he felt a reverberation, almost a thrumming, like that of a hammer against steel, on his palm. The sensation went up his arm into his head.

Rsiran positioned the pick over the wall and began to chip at the stone, using his awareness of the lorcith to guide each blow. He decided to keep time with the tapping, hoping that his picking would be lost in the sound of the other. He worked carefully, always watching for signs of light to know if any of the foremen came to investigate. As far as he knew, they went back to the village at the end of the day, locking the miners within Ilphaesn until morning.

Every so often, he hesitated, listening for the tapping. The steady sound continued, like a distant hammering, only never coming any closer. Rsiran did not dare investigate.

Unlike when he had mined during the day, the foreman distracted and barely paying attention, only the orange light of the strange lanterns lighting the tunnels, he worked entirely by feel. This made him more attuned to the lorcith as he focused on where he chipped away at the stone. All around him he felt other large deposits of lorcith, some buried deeply, while others like the one he freed with the blunted pick, sat near the surface.

With as many as he felt, it seemed strange that large finds were rare. Even working blindly, the others should have been found, freed by luck and time by the workers sentenced to serve in Ilphaesn.

He had nearly freed the large collection when he realized the tapping had stopped.

It was during one of his pauses, and it took his mind several moments to register what was missing. He waited, expecting the sound to resume, but it did not.

What did its absence mean? Rather than resuming work, he dusted around the stone with his hand, feeling the size of the lorcith he had freed. The lump was massive, far larger than any other he had taken, and sat loosely in the wall. Another few strikes with the pick, and it would be free.

The sudden silence disconcerted him. He worked to steady his breathing, but memories of the last time he was in the mine kept pushing to the front of his mind. That attack had nearly killed him, the poison on the pick acting quickly enough that he had been lucky to Slide from the mine when he did.

Instead of using the pick, he took the hammer and scratched at the rock, scraping it as quietly as he could over the lump of lorcith, pulling on it to try and free it from the stone.

As it began moving, the tapping began again.

This time it was close and almost loud enough it could be in the same tunnel as he was. Rsiran froze, hands wrapped around the lump of lorcith, the pick and hammer trapped between his knees.

The tapping continued, steadily, breaking occasionally. Rsiran suddenly understood what he was hearing. It paused like he did, as if to wipe dust away.

His mouth went dry. Reaching to grab the device Della had given him, he found it had fallen out of his pocket somewhere in the darkness.

There was around him but more blackness. And now he was certain he wasn’t the only one mining the lorcith at night.

Barely breathing, he felt the lorcith stone begin to shift. It screamed as it came free of the wall.

The tapping stopped.

Rsiran didn’t wait to hear if it would resume. He Slid.

T
he air
in the smithy felt cold compared to the mine. The light from the lanterns nearly blinded him. Rsiran’s arms shook as he clung to the lorcith, and his heart pounded, blood rushing through his ears. Nausea rolled through his stomach.

He staggered toward the forge, dropped the lorcith next to the other nugget, and leaned against the crumbling stone to steady himself, his mind racing with what he encountered.

Someone else mined at night.

That meant Sighted or someone who could sense the lorcith within the walls.

How many nights had he stayed awake, lying and listening to the steady tapping? Even when he went down into the mines on his own, walking through the darkness at night, he hadn’t been certain what it was that he had been hearing.

There was no doubt now.

Rsiran looked at the two nuggets he had. Enough to get started. More than enough to forge a knife or longer blade. But he would need more if he was going to make Brusus’s goal worthwhile, much more if he was going to actually help Brusus pay off his debt.

How could he return to the mines now? Whoever was there had to have noticed him; had stopped hammering when he pulled the lorcith from the stone. What if it was the same person who had attacked him?

To settle his mind, he set to working. The coals had already been aligned, and he used the flint and steel that Brusus had provided to build the flames. His hands shook as he started, the trembling making his work difficult, but he somehow managed to strike a fire, only injuring his hands a few times in the process.

Stoking the flames helped calm him. This was familiar. Even though the smithy was different, the forge and bellows not the same as he knew, the work was the same. Once the coals were glowing comfortably, he briefly Slid outside to ensure it vented. Only after he was convinced that smoke rose freely from the chimney did he set to work.

He had a hammer; though it was not ideal, the small mining hammer could be used to shape the lorcith. Setting the smaller lorcith nugget atop the coals—the one reclaimed from the forest—he let the heat consume it. He stared at the glowing coals, letting his mind wander as the lorcith heated. When it began glowing red, he reached for tongs… but realized he didn’t have any.

In his need for familiarity, the need for something to calm him, he had forgotten he didn’t have any other tools. Now that the lorcith was already glowing, he had no choice but to shape it, otherwise it would cool and become useless, no more changeable than the bowl Brusus had in the tavern.

He looked around the open smithy for anything that could be used for tongs.

The forge and bellows consumed one wall. Piles of debris—cracked and crumbling stone from the walls and the forge—scattered along the others. He considered somehow using the lanterns, perhaps pulling off the handles to twist into makeshift tongs, but they would not be thick enough to support the weight. In one darkened corner he saw a wooden bucket and thought he could use the metal support hoop—one of the few things his father sanctioned him to fashion—but as he picked it up, the iron crumbled, corroded by time and salty air. Along the wall opposite the forge, there was a small shelf, but other than dust and cobwebs it was empty, only imprints of what had once been stored remained.

There was nothing in the empty building he could use.

Cursing himself for his stupidity, he hurried back to the forge. The lorcith was glowing nicely, heated nearly to the point where it would be workable. Much longer, and it would be useless.

What was he thinking to start the coals and begin heating the lorcith without the proper tools? Had he so quickly forgotten the lessons his father had taught him?

Maybe he had been away from the smithy too long. Perhaps he couldn’t make what he had promised Brusus.

The idea of letting Brusus down hurt. He had more lorcith, but how much more would he be able to obtain? If tonight was any indication, Sliding into the mines was going to be dangerous, and he would have to be extremely careful and prepare for the possibility that he would have to Slide away at any moment, abandoning his work.

It was either risk his safety or risk drawing attention to all of them. Rsiran knew already what he would choose. There was no other alternative.

He Slid to his father’s smith.

Coming out of the Slide, he staggered forward. In one night, he had used his ability more often than he should, expending too much effort. For the first time, he worried about the return Slide. And he still had a night of forging ahead.

Rsiran looked around the darkened smith. Faint streetlight filtered through dirty windows. Little had changed since he had last been here. The forge cooled along the back wall, heat still radiating from the heated coals earlier in the day. Bins full of iron and steel were stationed to one side. A smaller bin loaded with lumps of lorcith was on the other. He considered taking a single nugget but decided against it. His father might notice.

Along the back wall, near his beaten and faded wooden workbench, was a line of hooks. Various tools of the trade were placed carefully on the hooks, each returned to its place at the end of the day. His father would know if one was missing, but Rsiran intended to return what he borrowed before anything was noticed. Tomorrow he could have Brusus find him proper tools; for tonight he would borrow them.

Hurrying over, he grabbed a long-handled tong, and after a moment’s consideration, a heavy hammer. The small mining hammer would work fine for some of the detail work, but he needed something with more heft for striking and shaping.

He paused and looked around the shop again, thinking briefly of all the time he had spent working alongside the journeymen, the time he had spent cleaning and organizing, all the time he had spent daydreaming that one day he would work alongside his father before eventually taking over the shop. Now those were only lost dreams. He would have to find a new dream.

He worried the lorcith heating on the forge would become unusable if he waited much longer. Moving toward the middle of the shop, he Slid back to Lower Town and his rundown smithy.

The scent of the heated lorcith greeted him as he emerged from the Slide. Fatigue nearly overwhelmed him, and he caught himself on the anvil before he tripped into hot coals. He swallowed against a dry mouth, wishing for water, but that would come later.

He should rest. Pressing on when exhausted risked him simply passing out. But Rsiran shook his head, blinking to try and clear his tired mind. He had to focus on his task, use the lorcith now glowing brightly.

Taking the tongs, he lifted the nugget off the coals and set in on the anvil. He had no idea what he would forge. Brusus wanted knives, but this was too large of a nugget to be a single knife. Could he manage to split it? Maybe he could make two or three knives…

Inhaling deeply, he set the tongs next to him and lifted the heavy hammer, pausing long enough to listen for the call of the lorcith, to see if it would direct his forging as he remembered. He heard nothing.

Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. Had he been too long away from the forge? Rsiran didn’t want to think of the disappointment Brusus would feel or the look he would get from Jessa if he couldn’t manage what he had promised. He had not known them long, and there were no ties to him other than the casual friendship he had made. If his own family could discard him, what would stop near strangers?

Rsiran pushed the thoughts out of his mind and focused on the lorcith.

There was nothing to do but begin.

He raised the hammer and started striking. The sound of it hitting the lorcith rang out loudly, a familiar and reassuring sound. Tightness in his back quickly loosened, and his neck itched with sweat that dripped along his still healing skin. With each blow, his anxiety about disappointing Brusus and Haern faded more. Another dozen heavy strikes, and the worry about hurting Jessa faded. Soon he fell into a steady rhythm.

He was not certain when he lost awareness of the hammering. One moment, he struggled making anything appear, struggling simply to change the shape of the lorcith, hoping that the metal would trigger something within him and guide his blows, and the next moment, he was lost in a flurry of steady strikes. First he worked with the heavy hammer, flattening and stretching, using the few tools he had, and then he switched to the small mining hammer, carefully shaping and directing each strike.

At some point, he began feeling the pull of the metal, feeling as if each movement was guided, his hand directed by whatever shape was within the lorcith and wanted out. Over and over the hammer fell, his mind blank as the movement became everything, a steady jarring sensation as it worked up his arm. Heat came off the blade, seemed to know when it was time to bring it back to the coals to bring the reddish glow back to the metal. Rsiran ignored the sweat streaming from his body.