Brusus nodded. “And you don’t?”
Haern shook his head, his eyes deepening briefly.
Rsiran suddenly understood. Haern was a Seer. The ability was usually confined to the Elvraeth family and probably almost as rare as his ability to Slide, though he knew of none other than him with that dark gift. The weakest Seer could only See moments into the future. Some Saw flashes farther into the future, but they were glimpses only, rarely anything useful. What could Haern See?
“Jessa thinks we should hurry too,” Haern said.
Hurry with what? Rsiran wondered.
He worried about what he had fallen into. He’d overheard Brusus arguing about the money, and then he’d bought a knife from him. Now there was whatever Haern referenced. Who were these people?
Brusus shifted his gaze to the other person at the table who had so far been silent. Jessa…so not a boy as he had thought, though her slender face and deep brown hair cut short across the back made her look more like one. A blue flower with wide petals and a spiny stem stuck through her jacket. She watched him with suspicious eyes that were not as dark as Haern’s but not nearly as pale as Brusus’s. As usual when meeting someone new, Rsiran wondered at her ability. Then he felt the strange sensation of a Reader probing in his mind. He pushed up the barriers he’d long ago learned to build and turned away from her.
“Why the rush, Jessa?” Brusus asked.
She pursed her lips but said nothing, instead shook her head.
“You think you have something to fear from him?” Brusus asked, tipping his head toward Rsiran.
Jessa looked over at Rsiran. “You’re always too trusting, Brusus. How can you be sure you don’t?”
Brusus shrugged. “Rsiran here has his own secrets.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the lorcith-forged knife, and set it spinning on the table.
In the pale light of the tavern, the grey metal gleamed dully, as if the lantern light slipped along the surface of the blade. The knife spun along its center before slowly coming to rest with its tip pointed at Rsiran.
Haern set a wide hand atop the knife and held it to the light. “Where did he steal this?” Rsiran noted he said it without any hint of judgment. Haern spun the knife, twirling as if he’d always known it.
Brusus’s smile returned with a flash of teeth. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened and his pale eyes seemed to dance. “Why would he need to steal a blade like that?”
Haern glanced from Brusus to Rsiran. “This is a lorcith blade. I can count on one hand the number of blades I’ve seen. Can’t say I recognize the mark here, though. So—where did he get the knife if he didn’t steal it?”
Brusus shook his head. “Haern. Why would a smith need to steal a blade like this?”
Haern leaned forward and looked more closely at the knife. “Are you saying he made it?”
Brusus shrugged, taking a long sip of his ale. “That’s what he tells me.”
Jessa looked from Rsiran to Brusus, green flaring in her eyes.
“How much did you pay for this blade, Brusus?” Haern asked.
Brusus smiled. “You don’t believe he made this?”
“How much?” Haern asked.
“Five dronr.”
Haern looked at the knife for a long moment before handing it back to Brusus. Then he leaned back in his chair. “You could probably move that for ten, maybe even a talen.”
Brusus looked at Rsiran sideways. “I told him I would have given him more.”
“After,” Haern said.
Brusus laughed, nodding. “After.”
“Think he can learn to negotiate?” Haern asked.
Brusus smiled. “He’s already got a talent for it. I started at three.”
Haern was taking a sip of ale and snorted. Next to him, Jessa smiled as she sipped her own. The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You started at three, and he got you to five?” Haern asked.
“Isn’t that what I said?” Brusus said. He leaned back and finished his ale.
Which of them men Rsiran had overhead was Brusus? Did he owe money or was he collecting it? Either way, he had no idea what Brusus did, but the way they talked—and the fact Brusus bought one of his knives—made him think his work might not be approved by the constables. Worse, the way Brusus and Haern spoke made him wonder maybe they weren’t a part of the rebellion.
Rsiran realized that he had to say something or they would question him more. The more they said around him, the more he feared being pulled into whatever it was they were a part of. All he wanted was to return to the smith. If not the smith, then at least his bed. He needed to get away from them if he could. So far, Brusus didn’t know which smith he worked, there were dozens in the city, so he could get away from whatever they were into and focus on his apprenticeship and forget about the way the lorcith had called him to forge knives.
“I still have plenty to learn,” Rsiran said, “I would have taken three.”
Haern snorted again and raised a hand, waving the server over to their table to refill the mugs of ale. Brusus pulled a small felt pouch from inside one of his pockets and shook a pile of dice onto the table.
Haern shrugged. “Haven’t you already lost enough money tonight?”
“Maybe I can earn some of it back from Rsiran.”
Rsiran shook his head and took a hesitant sip of his mug to hide the edge of his nerves, finding the bitter flavor enjoyable. “I don’t dice.”
“Don’t dice?” Brusus asked, sounding disgusted. “What kind man doesn’t dice?”
“Or woman,” Jessa reminded, setting a small stack of dronr on the table.
“The kind that likes to keep their money,” Haern said, picking up the dice. “A dronr?”
Brusus and Jessa both nodded.
“Or one that doesn’t have any,” Rsiran said softly. At least the talk about the knives, and whatever their plans were, had stopped. Maybe he would be able to slip away, get home with enough time to sleep…
Haern threw the dice and they scattered across the table. “Well, now that you do, watch a few hands and decide if you want to lose it again.”
Rsiran hesitated again, glancing to the door that seemed so far away, with Brusus situated in front of it, as if knowing how he blocked him from leaving. Every so often, Brusus glanced to Rsiran’s pocket and a knowing look came to his face. What choice did Rsiran have but to sit and dice and try not to hear too much?
As he grabbed the dice, a nagging fear settled into his chest that told him he should risk leaving. Brusus stared at him, almost as if knowing his thoughts, but with his pale eyes, he couldn’t be much of a Reader.
He sighed, and tossed the dice, wishing again that he’d never made the knife.
Chapter 4
The morning air was crisp. Rsiran squinted against the rising sun filtering through thick clouds no longer fat with rain as he walked up the slanted road toward Upper Town. Far below him, waves crashed loudly against the shore in a steady rhythm. The chaotic sounds of the waking city mingled with the waves. There were shouts of fishermen heading out for the day, shops opening, and hammers distantly ringing against metal in the smithies. Everything around was vibrant and awake. Except for him.
Rsiran rubbed sleep from his eyes. He smelled of smoke and ale mixed with sweat from working the forge the night before. His shirt had been stained sometime during the night, leaving a crusty trail of white on one sleeve. Wrinkled pants pulled out of his boots, and he paused to tuck them back in. He carried his cloak over one arm, careful to keep the lorcith knife wrapped inside.
He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep at the tavern. Sometime after playing a few rounds of dice and losing three of the five dronr, his belly full with his second mug of ale. Still not the five his father usually managed, but more than he had ever consumed. The table had welcomed his head like a pillow. He had awoken to find the others gone, a stack of the three dronr lost playing dice set near his head.
He didn’t kno
w what to make of Brusus and his friends. They welcomed him without questions, but what of the subtle threat he felt from Brusus? And who was Brusus meeting by the docks today?
He pushed away the thought. It was none of his concern… except now it was. Brusus had told him that they’d see him again, looking at him knowingly as if reminding him that they’d find him if he didn’t show. Did he want more lorcith knives? Rsiran didn’t know that he could sneak anymore than what he had. And when would he see them? He might be able to find the tavern again, but that meant he had to get away from home at night, and risk his father—and sister—discovering.
He sighed. That was a concern for later; he had a greater concern now. First he had to reach the smithy or his father would be even angrier with him than he already was.
Rsiran hurried toward his father’s shop, fearful he would be late for the day of work ahead of him. He tried running, but his pounding head kept him from moving too quickly. It was a measure of his headache that he didn’t initially try to Slide, though the number of people in the street also had much to do with that decision. Sliding in the daylight was risky, but did he have any other choice?
He licked dry lips as he stepped into the shadows between buildings. Then he took a step forward, Sliding. The sound of air rushed through his ears, and it felt like wind blew across his face, as if he were running instead of taking only a single step. The air smelled musty and dry, and he held his breath to avoid tasting it, remembering well how bitter it felt on his tongue the first time he managed to Slide. When everything stopped, he opened his eyes.
He emerged from the Slide in the small fenced area behind his father’s shop. Walls of stone created a courtyard outside the smith, and a place of privacy. An iron pump with its handle starting to rust sat next to him, a small wooden bucket hanging from the end of the spigot. A pile of scrap metal, mostly steel and iron but some small amount of lorcith mixed in, towered in the corner of the fenced area, a long, sloped roof overhead leaving it filled in long shadows and darkness.
Rsiran grabbed the bucket and pumped the handle a few times, filling it quickly. If his father was in the shop, he could at least pretend he had been busy in the back, either stacking the scrap or fetching water. Both were jobs he did several times throughout the day.
He splashed some of the water on his face and rubbed his eyes to clear them. The scent of ale lingered on him, almost like perfume. If he stayed near the forge, the smoke coming off might mask the ale. Chances were good his father wouldn’t notice anything anyway.
As he approached the door, momentary concern flickered that it might be locked. Had he slid the bolt into the lock last night? Most of the time it didn’t matter—the small fenced area could only be accessed through the shop. If locked, he would either have to admit he was late or Slide through the door. Neither option appealed to him.
Thankfully, it was not.
He pulled the door open a crack and peeked inside. Thenis peered over the long bench on the far wall. Rsiran stepped in and shuffled toward the forge, setting the bucket down to the side.
Thenis turned and looked at him. He had closely shorn brown hair and an angry, healed burn mark along one cheek that left his face in a permanent frown. His eyes were pale though not quite as pale as Brusus’s. “Where did you come from?” he asked.
Rsiran nodded toward the back door. “The yard,”
Thenis nodded, flicking his eyes over to the door. “When did you go out there?”
Rsiran shrugged and turned to the forge, grabbing the shovel and piling in coals. Thenis came over and helped him, getting the coals lit and glowing brightly. They both stood back and watched the flames for a moment. Would Thenis tell his father? Had he already noticed the missing lorcith? Either would be grounds for some sort of punishment.
“Is he—” Rsiran started.
Thenis shook his head. “Not here yet.”
Rsiran took a deep breath, relief washing over him. Mornings were when his father met with customers, created his work list, but he didn’t have meetings every morning.
“What are you working on today?” Rsiran asked.
Thenis was generally pleasant, much nicer than some of the journeymen who had rotated through his father’s shop. Some could be nearly as nasty as his father. Though his father was usually professional and reserved while working around the journeymen, he didn’t know if the other master smiths treated them the same way.
Thenis glanced at the bench along the far wall, turning his attention to the sheet of paper tacked to the wall that listed the projects and shrugged. “Ten feet of steel chain is next,” he said. “Then a lorcith platter and bowl, though that’s for the Elvraeth, and your father will probably do that work.” He turned and looked out the lone window, looking up the street in the direction of the palace. “Come. You can help with the chain.”
Rsiran hid his smile. While his father rarely let him do much more than shop maintenance, Thenis would occasionally include him in projects. A chain might not be very exciting to a journeyman smith, but to Rsiran it was much better than fetching coals or moving scraps of metal.
Thenis directed him toward the iron bars. Rsiran looked up at him, and Thenis shrugged again. “Need steel for the chain. Not enough from the last forging, so we’ll have to smelt the iron into steel.”
They worked to get the fire blazing hot, turning the iron into molten metal. After they had been working for a while, Thenis took a step back and looked at Rsiran. “Why don’t you work on something while I’m getting this ready?”
Rsiran blinked at the offer. “Anything I can do to help?”
Thenis glanced over at the list tacked on the wall. “Probably, but why don’t you show me something of your own. Pretend you’re a journeyman preparing to move on.”
Rsiran understood what he was asking. Each journeyman completed a project for the different master smiths they rotated with before leaving to spend time with another. The projects were useful items, usually decorative, and meant to showcase their skill as a token of thanks. Rsiran’s father had never sold any of the projects the journeymen made over the years, keeping them displayed in a side room of the shop.
“Iron?” he asked. Iron was the least expensive metal they had in the shop but limited what he could do.
Thenis smiled. “Whatever draws you.”
Rsiran nodded. Such freedom was a luxury he never experienced, and a tingle of nervousness went through him that his father might catch him working and Thenis would claim ignorance. Yet even if he wanted to refuse the opportunity, while his father was gone, Thenis was in charge of the smithy.
Still, whatever drew him posed a risk. The lorcith seemed to want him to work with it, as if hoping that he’d forge it into something dark and dangerous. Even if he resisted now, what would happen if Brusus found the smith, and demanded that he make more of the knives?
Rsiran walked over to the bins of metal. Bars of iron stacked high in one, each mined outside the city and carefully formed before it was sold to the smiths. There was copper and grindl as well, each stack smaller and meant primarily for decoration. In a locked cabinet along a back wall his father kept various precious metals: gold, silver, and some platinum he saved for specific requests. Usually jewelry, but Rsiran had seen other decorative work from his father as well. Unfortunately those jobs, while high paying, came fewer and fewer. Rsiran did not remember the last time the cabinet had been unlocked. Yet as always, it was the lorcith that drew him.
Lorcith was different than many of the metals in the shop. As far as he knew, it could not take an alloy, leaving all works of lorcith made from the pure ore. Forging lorcith changed something about it, making it nearly impossible to reshape, so it was delivered in the same lumps pulled from Ilphaesn Mountain by the miners. Many still had hunks of rock still clinging to them, as if the mountain did not want to let go of the lorcith. Mostly it was the Elvraeth who could afford lorcith-forged items.
He stared at the pieces, knowing that he shouldn’t
use lorcith, but one drew him more than the others. He shouldn’t use lorcith. His father would learn, or Thenis would say something, but maybe he could claim this was why the others were missing.
Rsiran reached for it, but pulled his hand back. Iron would be safer, so much better for him, but the lorcith drew him, calling to him.
Knowing better of it, he grabbed the piece.
Thenis watched him from the corner of his eye. His scarred face pulled in a half smile, and he shook his head but didn’t say anything. A thick chunk of rock held to this piece, and Rsiran chiseled it off before heating the lorcith until it glowed a soft bluish-orange. Then he began hammering.
For some reason, lorcith seemed to almost speak to him, as if demanding it be shaped. Each time before, he had not known what would come of his shaping until he finished. Most things were simple: bowls or platters, a few candleholders, once a small pot. The knives were new and what did it mean that they had come as much from the metal as from him? What did that make him?
As he began hammering, he felt the strange connection to the lorcith that he had each time before. There was an understanding of where the metal needed to be hammered, how much force to use, when to heat it. He worked, ignoring the sound of Thenis working nearby, grunting occasionally. There was only the sound of his hammer, steady and rhythmic, like the waves slapping the shore down in Lower Town.
It wasn’t until he had been working for a while, sweat dripping from his face and slicking his back leaving his shirt clinging to him, that he realized what it was the lorcith directed him to make. And then he nearly stopped.
The blade was long and slender, so different than the knives he had made the times before. This blade folded slowly, the curved back different than anything he had seen. A wide tip narrowed as it worked toward the base of the blade. Curls of color—grey and black from the way the metal had taken shape—swirled along both sides of the blade in a pattern. Somehow, he knew that when it took an edge, it would be an impressive blade.
The Dark Ability: Books 1-4 Page 3