“I know.”
“There are some of my forgings here.”
“I know.”
Rsiran tried to remember when Brusus had last shipped a collection of his lorcith from the city. Had it been a few weeks? He sensed more than just bowls and decorative pieces. Knives were here as well. Each pulled on his senses in such a way that he could tell where they were in the hold.
But something else felt strange. Not just forged lorcith was here.
Rsiran listened, heard the soft call of the metal, different from the sense he had once he had shaped it. This reminded him of the mines, of the way the lorcith demanded he pull it from the rock surrounding it. There was not an insignificant quantity here.
Jessa moved away from him. In spite of the darkness, he felt the lorcith she carried with her and knew where she was. He heard her open another crate and then sucked in a soft breath. “Firell isn’t supposed to have this,” she muttered.
Rsiran wasn’t certain she spoke to him.
He stepped forward, drawn by the lump lorcith. He felt the crate that stored it, ran his hands overtop the surface, wondering what it meant that Firell would have so much. Was this what Brusus planned? Was this some way of increasing his production?
But where would Firell have gotten so much?
Jessa moved along the wall, opening crate after crate. Rsiran wondered if she sealed them after she inspected their contents but didn’t ask. Moving undetected in the darkness was her area of expertise, and he knew better than to challenge her. That he could sense her in the darkness comforted him. At least he didn’t feel completely blind.
As she worked to open a crate near the door, a clump sounded above him.
Footsteps. Someone had returned.
Jessa rustled through another crate and then hurried over to him, taking his hand.
“We should go,” he whispered.
“Not yet. Need to see if anyone is with Firell.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
He wondered why but didn’t argue. He doubted it would do any good anyway.
Jessa pulled the door open silently and crept out the door and into the hall. He clung tightly to her hand. If he let go, their chance to easily Slide to safety disappeared.
She moved carefully up the stairs. Rsiran heard voices on the deck, but the wind carried the sound away so that he couldn’t tell who spoke. He squeezed Jessa’s hand, reassured by her calm movement. His heart fluttered nervously about being caught on the ship. Firell might be their friend, but what they were doing now—creeping around his ship without his permission—did not feel quite right.
Near the top of the stairs, Jessa froze, partly peering out of the darkness. Rsiran stood behind her, hand around her waist, ready to Slide if needed.
“You do be sure he don’t know?”
Rsiran recognized Shael’s voice and frowned.
“I do be sure,” Firell answered.
“When can you be gettin’ to there?”
“A week. Maybe longer, depending on the seas. No worries.”
Shael laughed. “You know it be my nature to worry. How you be thinking I last so long in your city?”
“Are the right people in place to make this worth the risk?”
“The people be in place. They do be ready.”
“Good.”
Footsteps sounded closer. Strangely, Rsiran thought he sensed lorcith on the deck of the ship, not just in the hold below. But that would mean another crate of lorcith, one he hadn’t seen or felt before. That would mean they were bringing lorcith onto the ship.
“And the other?”
“I do be workin’ on that, too, as he asked.”
Firell laughed. He sounded closer.
A few more steps and he would reach the stairs.
“You’re careful, I’ll give you that. Help me carry this to the hold.”
They stepped closer, each step seeming to thunder across the deck of the ship.
Without waiting for them to near, Rsiran held onto Jessa and Slid.
Chapter 9
Night had come in full as Rsiran walked the streets of Lower Town. He hated that Jessa was not with him, but understood when she told him that she had to check on a few things that were easier for her to do herself. Rsiran understood the message. While he could Slide, she could sneak. Sometimes that was a more useful skill.
He walked along the road that fronted the bay. Waves splashed onto the rocky shore, the sound soothing him. No streetlamps lit the road here, but the nearly full moon provided enough light for him to see, bouncing off the water. The air tasted strange, almost bitter like lorcith, but he suspected that was more from the nausea rolling through him than anything real.
Lorcith pulled on him as a distant sort of sense, and he took the opportunity to listen for it. There was the charm he’d given Jessa. He felt the sword he’d made, hiding in his smithy. There was the soft sense of knives he’d forged, some on him, others with Jessa or Brusus, a few now scattered about Lower Town, hidden to serve as anchors, if he needed them during a Slide. A few reached out to him from over the water on Firell’s ship. Now that he knew of them, he recognized what he sensed. Over it all, came the gentle pull of the unshaped lorcith sitting in Firell’s hold.
Everything suddenly felt twisted to him. Firell had a cargo hold full of his forgings, but what was odder to him were the crates of unshaped lorcith. At first, he had thought Brusus had found a different supply of the metal so that he didn’t have to risk himself in Ilphaesn, but if Firell had crates coming in from Elaeavn, that didn’t seem likely. Especially if Firell planned on sailing for a week. But where would his supply come from?
Rsiran knew of two sources. Either mined directly from Ilphaesn—and if that were the case, he would not expect it to come through the city—or taken from the guild. And that was a riskier possibility.
He knew from his time in the mines that supplies of lorcith had dwindled. He’d also learned that someone controlled the supply, probably tied to the thin man from the mines. He didn’t know why, and had not cared. Once he had left his father and his smithy, his ties to the guild were cut, along with his information source.
But something his father had said the last time he had found him in his shop replayed in his mind now. He had thought Rsiran had stolen some lorcith. Rsiran had stolen from his father; he had turned into the thief his father had suspected he would become when he learned of his dark ability. But Rsiran had taken tools rather than ore.
So—who stole the lorcith?
So many questions, but he was no closer to any answers.
Without really thinking about what he was doing, he Slid, emerging on the street outside his father’s shop.
The street was empty. Lanterns staggered more regularly here, throwing a soft glow over the street and making it feel safer and warmer than any street in Lower Town. The air changed here, as well, smelling less like the sea and the daily catch and more of smoke and bread and all the work done here. In days past, those smells reassured him. Now, they just put him on edge.
Since escaping from the Floating Palace, Rsiran had spent all of his time in Lower Town. Since most of the guild shops were on the fringes of Upper Town, he hadn’t even been near his father’s shop. Standing in front of it felt strange after all this time away. It had once been a place of comfort. Even though his father had never let him do anything more than clean, occasionally act as striker, Rsiran had spent so many days here that it had been home. Now it felt like someone else’s home.
The sign hanging in front of the shop, Neran Lareth, Master Smith, seemed faded. Had the lettering always seemed so small, or had his time away given him a different view? Rsiran tried peering through the windows, but couldn’t see anything. He stepped up to the door and twisted the handle. Of course it would be locked.
He should return to Lower Town. That was his home now. But he couldn’t. Now that he was here, he felt compelled to see the inside of the shop. The last time he
had been here, his father had promised to report him to the constables. Rsiran wondered if he had ever done what he promised. Not that he would ever learn. So long as order was maintained, the constables didn’t care what happened in Lower Town.
Closing his eyes, he Slid inside.
The smell of the smithy welcomed him, that of lorcith and hot metal and work, but the scents were faded and subdued, like a memory. As he opened his eyes, he realized that nothing looked as it should. Sunlight streamed through the windows, allowing him to easily see the interior. Walls once cluttered with tools and forgings now were empty. The long bench where his father had done much of his finer work had fallen away from the wall, two legs bent and broken. Bins that should have been full of iron and steel and lorcith stood empty. Even the forge looked as if it hadn’t been used in weeks or longer.
Deserted.
Rsiran’s heart thudded. What would make his father abandon the shop that had been in their family practically since the founding of Elaeavn? In his youth, Rsiran had assumed he would inherit the smithy, take over for his father as had been done for generations. That was before. But even after everything that had happened, seeing this made him ache deep inside.
He walked toward the back room where his father’s office had been. It had always been locked, off limits to Rsiran, and as he passed through the doorway, he still felt a pang of guilt that he shouldn’t be here.
The office was small, a dozen paces wide, perhaps as many long. An empty desk butted against the wall. A few sheets of paper rested on the desk, but nothing else. Where had the wall of journeymen projects gone? Where were the stacks of orders? The bottles of ale his father kept hidden?
Nothing remained. It was almost like the smithy Shael had found for him.
Rsiran looked at the papers on the desk, shuffling them together, and then tucked them into his pocket. His father might have banished him, but somehow, it was his father who ended up getting banished.
He stepped out of the office and looked around. When he had come the last time, taking grinding stones to use on the knives he made, he had not expected to ever come here again. But he never thought his father would no longer be here for him to find. That he wasn’t here left him feeling emptier than it should. After everything his father put him through, sending him to the mines, demanding that he ignore the gift the Great Watcher gave him, Rsiran still struggled to hate him.
But questions still remained. What happened to the lorcith? Did his father’s shop closing have anything to do with the dwindling supply? Or was it something simpler—just the matter of the ale finally catching up to the quality of his work. Even when Rsiran had still been with him, the quality had begun to suffer. The last time he’d seen his father, he’d been drunk.
He should find Jessa before he did anything foolish. What he’d done already—coming back to his father’s shop—would anger her. But he didn’t want to risk her. Not after what he’d experienced in the warehouse. Had he not been with her, one of those knives would surely have struck home, would surely have ended her.
And he needed answers. First, the strangeness with the warehouse, and then Firell’s ship. And Shael? Where did he fit in? He wanted some device forged, but Rsiran didn’t even know what he was making. Now, he learned his father’s shop had been abandoned. Too much happened all at once. It could be nothing more than a coincidence, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was somehow connected, if only he could learn how.
There was one place he had avoided since the attack on the palace. One place where he feared going, until now. But answers were needed, and at least some of what was happening around him was connected to lorcith. Especially with what he’d found on Firell’s ship.
That meant the mines.
Was he really ready to return? Could he dare not return?
But not without Jessa. Rsiran didn’t want to risk her anger. More than that, she could help. Her Sight would make anything he needed to do that much easier.
Without thinking about it any longer, Rsiran Slid away from his father’s shop.
* * *
He found her waiting for him in the smithy. She sat quietly hunkered near the table, slowly twisting something on the blue lantern. The light flickered on and off.
She looked up as he returned. “Where have you been?”
“Waiting.”
Her mouth tightened, the frown that formed so familiar. “You need to be careful at night, Rsiran. After what happened…”
“I seem to remember that I saved you this time. And the last.”
Had she been closer, she would have punched him. Instead, she tossed a small steel spoon he’d made at him. Rsiran ducked. Too bad his power over the lorcith didn’t extend to other metals; then he could have simply slowed it enough to catch.
“So?” She flicked the lantern again, plunging the smithy into darkness.
Rsiran felt the pull of the lorcith on her. The knives. The charm. And was reassured. “I… I visited my father’s shop.” The sense of lorcith told him that she moved.
The light flicked on. She stood two paces from him. “Why would you do that? Didn’t he say he planned to report you to the constables?”
“That’s what he said. But he hasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Rsiran shook his head. “No. I don’t know that. But wouldn’t Brusus or Haern have heard something if the constabulary sought someone who could Slide?”
“Not if the Elvraeth want to keep that secret. How many even know of your ability? Della did. But I’d never heard of it before meeting you.”
Rsiran hadn’t really pieced that together before. How had his father known about Sliding if it was so uncommon? “It was empty.”
Jessa shrugged. “Well. It’s late. Did you expect him to keep your hours?”
“Not like that. He’s gone. All of his tools were gone. The forge looked like it hadn’t been used in weeks. Only a few papers on his desk remained.” Rsiran pulled the papers from his pocket and looked down at them. Numbers ran across the page. He’d seen notations like that before; his father’s bookkeeping records. But with everything else gone, why had these been left behind?
“Do you care?” The light flickered out.
From the lorcith, he knew she slipped closer to him. But he didn’t need to feel the lorcith to know that. He smelled the flower tucked into the charm that mixed with the clean scent of her sweat.
When he didn’t answer quickly enough, the light flickered back on. She pressed against him.
“He’s my father.”
“After everything he did to you?”
How to explain to Jessa what he felt? “Without him, would I have met the others? Would I have met you?”
Her eyes darkened. “Without him, would you have nearly died twice?”
Rsiran swallowed. They were hazy memories, either blocked or remembered through the fog of his injuries. “You’re right. I… I just wanted to see the shop, to see what happened to him…”
“And now that you do?”
Something in her tone made him pause. “You knew,” he realized.
She watched him and then nodded slowly. “I knew. After what happened in the palace, and what you told me, I’ve been keeping watch. I didn’t want any sort of surprise.”
“Then what happened?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see. One week he and his journeyman were working as usual, the next the smithy had been cleared out.” When Rsiran frowned, she continued. “I didn’t watch every day, Rsiran. Just enough to keep tabs for you. I wasn’t sure you were going to go back, but I was afraid that you might.”
“Why were you afraid?”
Jessa set the lantern on the floor next to him. “After what he did to you? After how he hurt you?” She shook her head. “You’re still not healed from that. Not really. Your injuries might have healed, but inside?” She took his hand and hugged his arm. “I didn’t want him to do anything else that might hurt you. You saved me from
the palace, and I’m not going to let them hurt you again.”
The passion in her voice made him smile. Rsiran tucked the pages of numbers back into his pocket, remembering why he’d come back to the smithy. Not just for Jessa, though that was part of it, but because he needed her.
“There’s someplace I think we need to go.”
“The Barth? I already know Brusus will be late. He had another engagement.”
Rsiran frowned. “What kind of engagement?”
With one hand, she touched his cheek. “The kind he wouldn’t want me talking about.”
Rsiran didn’t push. When Jessa became coy like that, he knew it wouldn’t help anyway. “Not the Barth. I started thinking about what happened in the warehouse and what we found on Firell’s ship. It reminded me of how lorcith seemed to be missing from the mines, lorcith I know still lives within the walls. It’s just that miners don’t take it. And now, with the supply of lorcith so low in the city, Firell suddenly has a massive collection?”
Jessa stepped away from him. Her eyes flashed a deep green as they narrowed. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you intend, Rsiran Lareth. You want to Slide to the mountain. After what we’ve already seen…”
“That’s just the problem. You’ve seen. I’ve only felt. And I can’t get past the idea that the mines are part of whatever is happening.”
“Rsiran…” She didn’t finish. Jessa just studied his face, her eyes Seeing enough to practically Read him. Then she sighed. “Not without me. And not without your knives.”
Rsiran patted his pocket. “I have three. And you have two.”
“How did you…? You can feel it that well?”
He nodded. “If I made it, I can. Otherwise, it’s less sensitive. But I can still feel it. It’s stronger the more I focus on it.” All around him, he felt the sense of his lorcith forgings pulling on him, the sword most strongly. For whatever reason, that always pulled on him. He could only guess that either his forging of the sword or the fact that he’d used it as an anchor when he infiltrated the palace and rescued it from Josun had connected him to it more strongly than to anything else he’d made.
The Heartstone Blade (The Dark Ability Book 2) Page 7