The Dark Ability (15 page)

And then he was done.

Rsiran felt a sense of release from the lorcith, as if whatever had taken hold of him had given up its grip, freeing him now that the work was finished. The soft call of the metal faded, disappearing in what seemed a sense of satisfaction. Tunneled vision cleared, and slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He looked down to see what he had made.

A long blade lay on the anvil. The entire length still glowed a faint orange. The tip was wide and tapered gradually toward the blunt tang. The metal seemed to shift and shimmer, almost as if liquid beneath the surface. It shifted with a pattern formed from metal folded over in a way he could not even remember, let alone describe. He ran his hand above the blade, knew that it would be smooth, and wondered how well it would take sharpening.

If it was anything like the others he had made, it would quickly take an edge, almost demanding that it be sharpened. All this blade needed was a hilt, and it would be complete.

His heart fluttered as he realized what he had done. A sword. A tool of death, forbidden by the guild. It was enough to bring him before the Elvraeth council, possibly enough to get him banished. But why did it look so beautiful?

Rsiran had never forged anything like it before. There had been the blade he started in his father’s shop, destroyed when his father realized what he made, but this was different. The only other swords he had ever seen were made of steel, carefully crafted by master bladesmiths. Never out of lorcith.

He knew how he had done it, understood that it was the guidance of the lorcith calling to him that pulled the shape out of the raw nugget. But what if it was more than that? What if the lorcith reacted to something within
him
to make this? What if this was part of the darkness his father believed within him?

A small mark was near the base of the sword, above the tang where it would be visible with the attached hilt. At some point, he had engraved a small marking, the same as he had made on the knife blades that he should not have created. He didn’t know how he managed to make such fine detail along the blade, a twisted piece of the handle off one of the lanterns rested alongside the anvil.

As he leaned against the anvil, tired and sweaty, he wished nothing more than to lay on the ground and sleep. Maybe he would awaken and this would be nothing more than a dream, the sword simply part of his imagination, but he knew better.

Already much of the night must be gone, spent mining and forging, and still he must return the tools to his father’s shop before he noticed they were missing. Pushing back up, he staggered toward the door and pulled it open, curious how late in the night it was, hoping he would have time to sleep before Brusus came bursting in, looking to see what else he might need.

Rsiran wasn’t sure he had the energy needed to Slide back to his father’s shop, but needed to try before morning came and he noticed the missing tools.

As he opened the door, his heart sank.

Reddish orange light from the sun rising over the harbor made him stagger back. Little darkness remained, only memories of shadows lingering in the spaces between the falling buildings. He swallowed against the nausea rising in his stomach as he pushed the door closed and locked. Leaning back against the rough wooden door, he steadied his breathing.

He had spent the entire night mining and forging. His eyes fell on the tools borrowed from his father’s shop. How long before his father noticed? How long before he suspected Rsiran? And how long before he turned him in and the guild came searching for him? How long did he have before he was brought before the Elvraeth and banished?

Because of him, Brusus would not have the knives he needed to pay off his debt.

R
siran awoke
to a loud pounding in his head.

His eyes were hazy, covered by a film from sleep, and his first thought was that he was somehow back in the mine and that the steady tapping came from deep within. In a fit of confusion, he panicked.

He sat up with a start and nearly smacked his head into the anvil.

Sleeping. Only sleeping, and fitfully at that. He remembered snippets of dreams where darkness followed him, the sense that someone loomed out of sight, and always the fear of another attack.

His back burned, and his neck ached. After running a hand across the still fresh wound, he pulled it away tentatively, fearing he might find blood. He let out a long breath when he did not.

Looking around, he was still in the old smithy, the coals cooling behind him, the long blade he had forged during the night resting on the ground near him. Bright light shone through the cracked ceiling, lighting a spot on the floor. Debris and dust scattered across the floor seemed more noticeable in the light. One of the lanterns still flickered, the oil within burning with a thin smoke. Another lantern laid near him, disassembled, the handle twisted and bent.

Above everything was the pounding.

Not in his head, though. It took him a few moments to realize what he was hearing. Someone was pounding on the door to the building.

Rsiran pushed himself up and took the long blade, holding it away from himself. Even holding it made him feel somewhat sick, knowing such a thing should not exist. In the daylight, the pattern along the surface shimmered even more, appearing to shift and slide, as if his eyes couldn’t focus on it properly.

He hid it to one side of the forge, tucking it behind the bellows so the wooden frame would prevent anyone from seeing it.

As much as the blade bothered him, part of him wanted to keep the blade to himself, sharpen the edge, and attach a hilt. But he had no use for such a weapon. Likely as not, he would trip over the blade or worse, cut himself carrying it. The small knives he had made suited him better, and even those should not have been made.

The pounding came faster, more urgent. Whoever was at the door was persistent. Hopefully it was only Jessa or Brusus, but what if it was not? Could he take the chance that it was someone else? What if someone had heard his hammering last night?

If the guild learned of an unsanctioned smith, the constabulary would be notified. If Shael did not have the proper proof of ownership of the building—and Rsiran was not certain that he did, or that he’d bribed the right constables to leave him alone—the building could be raided. And then the lorcith would be found. The blade would be discovered.

Maybe his father was right after all. Had his ability turned him into something worse than a thief? But why did the sword still seem so beautiful?

Wiping the dust from the floor off his pants, he hurried to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open enough to see who battered the other side. It pushed open in a heavy blast, and Brusus barreled inside.

Brusus seemed hurried today, dressed differently than usual. He wore a heavy brown cloak overtop a red shirt and leather pants. Traces of dirt and dust marred the cloak and looked as if he had tried to carefully brush it away. Even his grey hair was combed differently. A small twisted silver tree hung on a chain about his neck. He carried a stack of clothing in his hands and tossed them at Rsiran.

“Damn, Rsiran! Why didn’t you answer the door?”

Rsiran shook out the clothes. Simple brown pants but nicely sewn. The deep blue shirt had a line of embroidery, fancier than what he was accustomed to wearing. “I was sleeping.” He said nothing about the blade. Not until he decided what he was going to do with it.

Brusus laughed. “Sleeping? Already?”

“What do you mean already? I’m waking up for the day.”

Brusus pushed past him, and Rsiran shut the door, careful to lock it.

“Jessa said she hadn’t seen you yet today. What happened?”

Rsiran moved to stand in front of Brusus so that he wouldn’t be drawn toward the hidden blade. “I’ve been figuring out how to acquire lorcith.”

Brusus’s face changed, brow furrowing. “Are you sure you can do this? There are others who could help. You don’t need to do this by yourself.”

“I know, Brusus.” But if he let others help, they would risk punishment from the guild. If everything went well, he might reveal to Brusus that he could Slide. Until then he would keep it to himself. “Give me a little more time.”

Brusus turned and looked around the smithy. “Do you have everything you need here?”

Rsiran shrugged. “Most everything. Some tools still to get. Water source for quenching. Mostly, I’d like to clean the dust and stone off the floor.”

“Dirt a problem?”

“Only if I trip.”

Brusus looked at him and smiled. “I think I know how to work a broom.”

“That would be great.”

Brusus stepped past him and seemed to notice something for the first time. “Testing the coals?”

Rsiran swallowed. He didn’t want to hide what he had been doing from Brusus but wasn’t certain he was ready for him to know, either. Knowing meant questions. How had he gotten the lorcith? Where had the tools come from? Questions might come regardless, but he hoped to delay needing to answer a little longer.

“Trying to clean up the coal pit. Need to clean the venting.” He shrugged, careful to keep himself between Brusus and where the sword hid next to the bellows. “Didn’t want to get too far along and have something as simple as poor ventilation keep this from working.”

Brusus turned and looked around the smithy. “Shael didn’t leave you much to work with here, did he?”

“This place is perfect,” he said, and meant it.

The building had more space than his father’s smithy, and other than the damaged stone, the anvil was solid and useable and the coal pit massive. Whoever had once used this as their shop likely had an impressive setup. If only some of the tooling remained, Rsiran would be even more pleased.

“Need to get that hole fixed.” Brusus motioned toward the ceiling. “Can’t have rain coming in and damaging your projects.”

Rsiran nodded. Rainwater wouldn’t harm anything he planned on creating. Unlike iron, lorcith never corroded. It was barely even magnetic. Beyond that, he didn’t think the smith guild knew much more about lorcith. Only the alchemist guild knew the deepest secrets of the ore.

“Well, now that I’ve found you, I suppose I better take you to find Jessa. She was all twisted when I asked if she’d seen you yet today. Maybe you’ll have time to dice with us tonight?”

“I don’t know,” he started. “To gather lorcith, I have to work at night.”

Brusus frowned at him. “Is that what you were doing last night? This isn’t an Upper Town neighborhood, Rsiran. You need to be careful if you’re going to be wandering at night. Especially by yourself. Dangerous things are out.”

Rsiran started to smile but saw the earnest expression on Brusus’s face. “I’m careful,” he said. “There’s little chance anyone sees what I need to do.”

“Care to share what you’re planning?”

Rsiran almost told him, but caught himself. “When I’m sure how to make it work,” he said instead.

“You don’t have to take all the risk,” Brusus suggested. “If you think you’re going to sneak into your father’s shop and take his supply of lorcith…”

“Not as simple as that. My father would know and report to the guild. Constables would be notified—”

“We can handle constables…”

Rsiran wondered what he meant by that. He hadn’t figured out Brusus’s connections yet. “And the other smiths would be on edge. Worse, the mining guild might catch wind of what we’re doing and limit the supply altogether.” He shook his head. “What I have planned is simpler.”

Brusus pinched his chin as he looked around the smithy. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable being kept in the dark with this, but if you say you’ve got it under control then I’ll trust you. Just… be safe, Rsiran. I can’t think of how you intend to acquire lorcith outside of the smiths and the mining guild, and to be honest, it worries me, but you need to be careful. There are people other than the constables to fear in Elaeavn.”

The note of concern in his voice surprised him, and Rsiran almost told him everything. “Really, Brusus,” he started, “it isn’t that dangerous. An ability I have…” Rsiran caught himself, glancing up at Brusus’s pale eyes, feeling embarrassed that he had mentioned abilities when Brusus’s must be as weak as they were, and shrugged. “I will get a supply of lorcith soon and start working on the knives.”

Brusus studied him for a moment and then nodded. “Get dressed and come then. Since you are taking this risk, then I’ll take one with you. There is something I need to show you.”

Something about the comment sounded faintly ominous. “What?” He quickly switched his clothes, ditching the shirt and pants worn by Ilphaesn miners and dumped them near the hearth. Maybe he would burn them later.

Brusus clapped a hand on Rsiran’s shoulders and turned him, pulling him toward the door and out into the street. Brusus waited as Rsiran fished the brass key out of his pocket and pulled the door closed behind him, locking it carefully.

“Shael knows how to pick his buildings,” Brusus said, shaking his head. “Can’t believe this is even here. Probably don’t even need to lock the door.”

“Once we get a stock of lorcith,” Rsiran reminded.

Brusus nodded, glancing back at the building. “Surprised the smith guild hasn’t claimed this building for themselves before now. And surprised Shael found it so quickly. I thought we might have to build one when he came across this.”

The thought struck Rsiran. Why
hadn’t
the smith guild taken over this building? Surely, they would have known that it had once been a smithy—it was too massive to be anything else. Or did the building predate the guild? Rsiran couldn’t remember how old the guild was—somewhere around two or three hundred years old—but that would mean the forge here was even older than he thought.

“These parts of Lower Town were some of the first buildings constructed,” Brusus went on, leading them through the narrow street. Sunlight shone between the buildings but still some shadows remained, lingering along the edges of the walls and in the small spaces between buildings. Fetid water stood in those places, leaving foul smelling pools that even overpowered the stink of sewage and garbage that otherwise filled the street. “You know that at first, most simply built along the outer edge of the forest? No one really wanted to leave the trees and try something different. Only later, the rest of the city came to be, the sprawling streets stretching up the faces of the cliffs, the engineers designing the buildings to look like natural stone, the Floating Palace.”

Rsiran looked up, expecting to see the palace looming over them, but from where they were, there was no sign of it, a sheer rock wall stretching toward the sky. “How old is this part of town?”

Brusus looked around, eyes pausing on the cracking buildings, the dust and stone crumbling and spilling out onto the street, and shrugged. A few people, most of them young and thin, clothing tattered and ripped, simply sat along the streets. In most parts of town, the constables would move such people along, keep them off the streets and send them toward the harbor where they would be put to work or placed in a shelter.

“Maybe eight or nine hundred years? Older than old Elaeavn, and the city is a thousand years old. Some parts—like here along the shore—are much older. This is the only part you can really see from the water.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

Brusus looked over at him. “You should really see Elaeavn from the water, Rsiran. Only from out on the sea can you fully appreciate what the city engineers managed to accomplish. Even the palace fits.” Brusus’s voice took on a faraway quality as he spoke, but he still said the word “palace” with a hint of disdain. His gaze drifted toward the sound of waves crashing along the shore somewhere behind the row of buildings. From where they were on the street, the sound was more muted than other places in the city, as if the buildings crouched together to shield those living here from the ocean.

“I’ve seen the city from above,” Rsiran offered, looking toward the towering cliff face that framed the southern edge of the city. “Everything seems small and insignificant. Only the Floating Palace really stands out from above.”

Krali had been one of his favorite places to Slide before his father had berated him for the ability. Standing above the city, looking down on everything, made him feel a part of something larger. Perhaps there really was a Great Watcher sitting in the stars, watching over all of creation. There, he almost felt as if
he
were a Watcher.

“You’ve climbed Krali Rock?” Brusus asked.

Rsiran felt his heart catch. He should have been more careful. Krali Rock, named after the people who once lived along the shores, was nearly impossible to climb, rising sheer and smooth above the city like a pillar of stone. The only way Rsiran had managed to stand atop the rock was by Sliding to the peak. From the markings he had seen there, others had been before him, but whether they had climbed or Slid like himself, he did not know.

“Not from Krali,” he said quickly. “To the north. When I was younger, my father took me out of the city to the north.” The answer was mostly true. The view from near Ilphaesn wasn’t nearly as impressive as from atop Krali, but was easier to explain.

Brusus watched him with a quizzical expression. “Well, that’s not really from above then. From the north, the city is splayed out across the bay, buildings looking like they are stacked atop one another. Can’t even remember ever really seeing the palace.”

Rsiran shrugged, wanting badly to change the topic. “It was some time ago,” he said, not needing to say more as they reached the end of the long narrow street.

Along here, the air felt warmer, as if the sun failing to shine through those last remnants of shadow kept the temperature lower. A steady breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the sound of the gulls and the noise from the harbor. The street bustled with activity here on the edge of Upper Town with people wandering in both directions. Those coming from Lower Town always seemed burdened with heavy loads or baskets, most coming from the market or the harbor. Those moving down the street often pulled empty carts or baskets.