The Dark Ability: Books 1-4

by D. K. Holmberg

  Few others were out in the streets tonight, the rain keeping doors and shutters closed. Rsiran didn’t mind the damp. His cloak kept him warm, and his boots kept his feet dry. After spending all day sweating in the heat of the forge, the rain felt refreshing. As he walked, his hand drifted to the solid metal blade he had forged earlier.

  It was made entirely of lorcith mined in the Ilphaesn Mountain to the north. Lorcith had long been coveted for its durability and hardness. Items forged out of the precious metal were highly valued in places like Asador or Yleran, great cities to the east and north, far past the Aisl Forest. Never weapons, though. The Elaeavn smiths would never create weapons out of lorcith; the ruling Elvraeth forbade such craftings, though Rsiran had not yet learned why. Another thing his apprenticeship had not yet taught him.

  Rsiran rubbed his finger along the blade, wincing as he felt the sharp edge that had taken hours to hone, hours when he was supposed to be organizing and cleaning his father’s shop. His finger slid over the mark he had etched into the base. The chunk of lorcith had almost sung to him, demanding to be shaped into the slender blade.

  The rain tapered to little more than a steady mist as he neared the shop. All around were other stores, most closed for the evening. Another smithy was down the street, flickering light filtered through closed shutters. The steady muted clang of hammer on metal rang out.

  Not for the first time, he wished his father had apprenticed him with a different smith. Such an arrangement had been done before and would likely benefit them both. Instead, his father chose to torment him. Rather than teaching him to work the forge, his father forced him to clean the shop and keep the coals lit, telling him he would learn first by watching. Rarely, he was allowed to be striker, doing little more than swinging the heavy hammer. To him, those were the good days.

  Inside the shop, a soft glow radiated from the forge, heating the room. He hadn’t tampered the coals as his father had asked. Rsiran’s heart sank. He would have to tell his father. He hoped in the morning, the punishment would be less severe. He considered lying, but never knew how much the journeymen who worked in the shop shared with his father. Getting caught in a lie would be worse than admitting what he’d neglected.

  Rsiran sighed and moved to the small lantern set atop one of the workbenches, without Sight, he saw little more than simple shadows in the darkness. He lit the lantern using the coals from the forge, and it bloomed to life.

  The shop was simply built out of stone like most of the buildings in Elaeavn. Tools hung on hooks along one wall. A bin beneath them held hunks of unshaped metal. His father’s recent works stacked atop a long shelf along the opposite wall. Mostly lanterns, decorative platters, and utensils—all items that sold well. He pulled the slender blade out of his pocket and set it next to work done by his father, spinning it on the table. A waste of lorcith. A forbidden forging. Much like his ability, one given by the Great Watcher to thieves and murderers, it was something he had to hide.

  Rsiran sighed. If he could change the ability given to him, he would. Something useful, like Sight or perhaps Listening. Anything but an ability he was compelled to hide.

  Returning to the forge, he began to tamp the coals but stopped. More than anything, he needed to clear his head before he returned. Maybe give his father enough time to fall asleep.

  The lorcith called to him, a strange and seductive call that he couldn’t resist. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he took an unshaped piece, fired up the forge, and began heating the metal. He would show his father he could smith items of value. Perhaps then, he would let him do more than simply sweep the floors.

  Chapter 2

  Panic set in as Rsiran realized that he’d made another slender blade, a twin of the first. Weapons were forbidden for him to forge, but even more so out of lorcith. How long had he been hammering? Would his father still be awake when he returned home, determined to know if he had put out the coals, or would he wonder what had taken him so long to check the forge?

  As he looked at the blade, he still couldn’t help but feel proud of what he had created. The shape matched the first perfectly and had a pleasing heft. Not surprisingly, the lorcith folded well and took a sharp edge as he honed it on the grinding wheel. It didn’t matter that Rsiran had no use for such blades. The crafting mattered.

  Pocketing both blades, he hurriedly put out the coals. After extinguishing the lantern, he left the shop, careful to lock the door behind him. He would not provide his father with another excuse to punish him. The missing lorcith would be reason enough. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice. These days he noticed less and less.

  Drizzling rain still misted down. Rsiran rubbed a hand across his face and pulled away a handful of dark soot. He wiped his hands on his cloak, feeling the reassuring weight of the blades hidden in one of the pockets. In spite of himself, he smiled. For some reason, it felt good to have something else that was forbidden besides his ability.

  At this hour, the sky was dark, a hint of rolling clouds far overhead and waves crashing along the shore beneath Elaeavn. Somewhere nearby, there came the sound of hushed voices arguing, and he paused to listen, wondering at the source.

  “I’ll have your money—”

  “It’s no longer about the money. I have another way for you to repay me.”

  Rsiran backed into the shadows, suddenly not wanting to be out on the street.

  “I don’t like the sound of that—”

  “Have I ever led you astray? Besides, you wouldn’t want your secret discovered, would you?”

  A soft laugh drifted out. “Not much of a secret.” The voice paused. “What is it you want from me?”

  “Tomorrow. Near the docks. I’ll show you.”

  Another laugh. “Dramatic, aren’t you? Fine. Tomorrow then.”

  Rsiran scrambled back, trying to hide, when a shape burst out of the shadows of a nearby alley and crashed into him.

  Rsiran fell to the ground in a heap. One of his blades flew from the pocket in his cloak and clattered to the stones. Someone grunted nearby, shuffling on the stone.

  He pulled himself to his knees and reached for the blade. Another hand reached it first.

  “That’s mine.” Rsiran tried to keep the terror from his voice and failed. What would happen if this were one of the constables? He couldn’t be caught with a lorcith knife. His father wouldn’t have to kill him then; he’d be thrown in prison, or worse, sent to the mines to serve penance.

  The man standing across from him wore a dark cloak that was not quite black, greying hair slicked back over his head, his sun-weathered face wrinkled at the eyes as he frowned. He spun the knife in his hand. “Yours?” he asked, frowning. “Not a common knife, is it? Not common at all.” He spun it in his hand as he looked at the light softly reflecting off the metal. “A knife like this seems like it has a purpose.” His voice was as rough as his face. Even in the darkness, Rsiran could tell that his eyes were the palest of greens, a sign of limited ability.

  Rsiran nodded. “It’s mine,” he repeated carefully, praying the man wouldn’t recognize what the knife was made from. Violence in this part of Elaeavn was rare, not like in Lower Town. Rsiran had even overheard his father speaking to Seval, one of the other master smiths, about a rebellion, but he found that hard to believe. Still, he couldn’t help the nervous flutter he felt in his stomach. He held his hand out but took a step back.

  The man held the knife close up to his face. Not Sighted, at least, though as pale as his eyes were, whatever ability he had would be weak. “How would you acquire something of this quality?” the man asked.

  Rsiran felt a surge of pride at the compliment. If only his father would pay him such compliments. “I didn’t acquire it.”

  The man frowned again. “Did you steal it?”

  Rsiran shook his head. “I…” How to answer? What would this man do? “I made it.”

  The man turned it over again and looked over at Rsiran. “Made it?” One finger traced the etching near the base o
f the blade where Rsiran had carved his initials in a flourish, creating a specialized mark. “Are you not a bit young to be a smith?”

  Rsiran shrugged. He still had his hand out, and the man finally placed the knife into Rsiran’s palm. As he pocketed it, it clanged against the other. The man’s eyes widened slightly, and the hint of a smile turned the corner of his mouth.

  “Not a smith,” Rsiran answered. “Still an apprentice.” He still couldn’t tell which of the two men he’d heard arguing this was. Both had sounded angry, but one of them owed the other money. Would this man rob him of the knives? If he did, what could Rsiran even say?

  “Apprentice?” The man laughed, a deep-throated sound that hung in the misty air.

  Rsiran shook his head and turned away. His father laughed at him enough; he did not need this stranger to do it too.

  “Hey, boy, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Rsiran stopped and turned back.

  “I’m not used to seeing lorcith blades, at least not anymore. There was a time when our folk made many weapons, knives, and swords of such quality that they were highly prized. Problem was, men killed for the blades.” He shook his head. “I haven’t even seen a blade forged out of lorcith in years and thought that this must be the work of some ancient weapon smith. Most smiths these days don’t even mark their work.”

  Panic settled in his chest, sending his heart racing. Rsiran swallowed, trying—and failing—to tamp down his nerves. The etching had felt like a touch of vanity, but he had done it the same, almost drawn to make the marks, as if he had known it was not complete without them.

  “Your master must have shown you how to forge such blades.” He smiled. “Perhaps the smiths have changed their stance? Work like that…”

  He shook his head. “My master,” he began, deciding not to mention that his father ran the shop—it wouldn’t do to get his father in trouble with him, “thinks this blade was a waste of ore.”

  The man frowned. “Waste? Why—because a knife can kill? So can a fork or a platter or whatever else the smiths think is in fashion these days. You hit someone hard enough with lorcith, and they’ll die the same as if you cut them.”

  Rsiran started to turn. The hour was late, and he would have to be up before his father and back in the shop, getting the forge fired up and ready for the day. Lingering in the street would only leave him tired. He didn’t want to think what would happen were he to oversleep.

  “You thought about selling that knife?” the man asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the man and shook his head. Other than the smith guild, none were allowed to sell forged lorcith wares. “I already told you I’m only an apprentice,” Rsiran said carefully. This man already knew about the lorcith blades. If he wanted, he could report Rsiran to the constables, or worse, to the guild. Then Rsiran would never become a master smith.

  The man leaned against a nearby wall, pale eyes holding Rsiran intently. The misting rain didn’t seem to bother him, but he ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. “Because you’re an apprentice doesn’t mean you can’t profit from your work.” He smiled. “Knife like that would probably fetch at least three dronr.” He shrugged. “Probably quite a bit more outside the city.”

  “Is that your offer?”

  The man leaned forward and his smile broadened. “Didn’t say I would buy it for three dronr.” He laughed and there was darkness in the way that he laughed.

  Rsiran started to turn away, ready to run. What was he even doing waiting here? Already he would be home late—probably late enough to anger his father further—that he shouldn’t wait any longer.

  “Hey, now,” the man said, catching his sleeve, “didn’t say I would buy it for three dronr, but didn’t say I wouldn’t buy it at all.”

  Rsiran reached into his pocket and fingered the knives. He wouldn’t have to tell his family where he got the coin and could even use some of the money to buy more lorcith. Then his father wouldn’t have any reason to be upset with his forging. “I can’t sell it for three dronr,” he said. “That would barely pay for the lorcith.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. A smile stayed fixed on his face and wrinkled the corner of his eyes. Rsiran worried that he might simply take the knife from him again. “Four?” the man asked.

  He swallowed. “I would need five dronr.”

  The man leaned back and looked up at the sky. “Five! And here I thought the Great Watcher finally smiled upon me.”

  He turned away. Had he pushed his luck too hard? Nothing stopped this man from simply taking the knives. Rsiran wouldn’t even be able to report the theft.

  The man turned back, hand outstretched, five silver dronr cupped in his palm. Rsiran pulled one of the knives out of his pocket and handed it to him, hilt out, taking the dronr and slipping them into a different pocket.

  “I probably would have given you more, kid,” the man said.

  Rsiran let out a nervous laugh. “I probably would have taken three.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and frowned as he shook his head. Then a deep and hearty laugh erupted from his mouth. “I’m Brusus,” he said, extending his hand.

  Rsiran hesitated before shaking Brusus’s hand, debating whether to share his name. “Rsiran.”

  “Well, Rsiran, can we get out of the rain? I know a place where we can still get a warm mug of ale.”

  Thinking of his father, Rsiran shook his head. He needed to get home and to sleep so that he could get up in time to replace the lorcith he’d used. “No ale.”

  Brusus shrugged, twisting the knife in his hand and glancing to Rsiran’s pocket where the other knife remained. “Fine. Come and watch me drink it as I show off your craftsmanship to a few friends. I have a way that you could sell a few more of these.”

  “I need to get back,” he said, starting to pull away. “I have to be in the shop early.”

  Brusus grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him down the street, away from home and away from the shop. “What do you mean? It is early!”

  “I… I can’t.”

  Brusus smiled, and his expression changed as he did, softening and becoming friendlier. “Listen, kid, come along and I won’t have to mention anything about your knives. To anyone.”

  There seemed a hint of a threat, and Rsiran took a step back. Brusus’s smile deepened, as if he knew his thoughts. Rsiran fortified his mental barriers, careful to shield his thoughts. What would happen if he didn’t go with Brusus? Would he find Rsiran’s father, and explain how he’d bought the knife? That might be worse than simply going along with the man.

  Unable to think of anything different, he let himself be dragged along with Brusus, wishing he’d never made the knives in the first place.

  Chapter 3

  Brusus led Rsiran to a small tavern near the docks. The stench of the fisheries almost overwhelmed him as they neared Lower Town. Waves crashed steadily along the rocks, giving the streets a sense of rhythm that was missing from Upper Town. Light struggled to filter through the buildings towering overhead, making the shadows appear longer and more twisted than he was accustomed to.

  He should not be here. Not down in the dangerous and dirty lower section of the city, awake when he should be sleeping. Dawn would come quickly, and with it, he would have to be up. Each time he had considered pulling away, turning back toward home and his waiting bed, Brusus had grabbed onto his sleeve and pulled him along. Eventually he had come so far that turning back seemed too much work, unless he were to Slide back, but that involved revealing his ability, or at least risking it. That was worse than Brusus knowing that he forged lorcith into knives.

  Brusus didn’t stop pulling him until they reached a simple stone building. A small etching on one of the stones outside the door provided the only marking that this was a tavern. The door was made of stout oak, heavy and oiled to protect from the spray of sea salt in the air. Brusus swung the door open and pushed Rsiran in first.

  Inside was small
. A length of counter ran along one wall. A plain hearth angled in the corner where a warm fire flickered. A pair of lanterns hanging on hooks glowed softly with orange light, pushing back whatever shadows the fire missed. Tables made of the same rough oiled oak littered the remaining space. Brusus led him to one where another man sat next to a boy that had to be younger than Rsiran. Both nursed steaming mugs of ale.

  “Brusus,” the other man said. He was wider than Brusus, and his lined eyes flared green as they approached. A long scar ran from one ear down his check.

  Brusus threw himself onto one of the chairs. A smile quirked his mouth. He scanned the room with his pale green eyes before nodding toward the back. “Haern. Quite the night,” he said, rubbing his hand through damp hair. “I brought a friend. This is Rsiran.”

  Haern looked over at Rsiran, eyes flashing a deeper green. “Are you sure you should bring a smith here with what you’re—”

  Brusus cut him off with a look.

  Rsiran wondered how Haern knew, but realized that after a night working at the forge he must be practically covered with dirt and soot. Suddenly, he felt very aware of how dirty he must be, even to these men of Lower Town, and a rising terror about what he was even doing here began to settle in his chest. Would Brusus try to blackmail him into making more knives? Was that the reason he’d brought him here?

  Brusus’s smile deepened. “Sit,” he said, waving toward a tall stool.

  Rsiran pulled a chair to the edge of the table. He noticed a small ring with a pale blue stone on Brusus’s finger. One of the servers brought over two mugs of ale, setting them in front of Brusus and Rsiran. Brusus handed him a silver dronr, and the server slipped back toward the counter, leaving them alone.

  “How has your night gone?” Brusus asked, taking a deep drink from his mug.

  Haern looked at Rsiran for a long moment, his eyes a deep green as he watched the newcomer.

  “It’s okay, Haern.”

  Haern stared at Rsiran for another moment, before he turned to Brusus. “Thean thinks we should hurry.”