The Dark Ability: Books 1-4

by D. K. Holmberg

  The warehouse was mostly dark, but light squeezed through cracks in the roof. A few dirty windows set into the rafters let more light through, barely enough to keep Rsiran from crashing into Brusus as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. His eyes sparkled and a thin smile split his mouth.

  “What are we doing here, Brusus?”

  Brusus motioned around him. “What do you see here?”

  Rsiran stepped past Brusus and looked around. Wooden crates filled the warehouse. Hundreds were stacked, some two or three high, lined up evenly and carefully, almost as if in some sort of pattern. Some had writing on them in faded lettering, the type that Rsiran had seen somewhere before. Others were blank. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

  “Boxes,” he answered.

  Was this the secret Brusus wanted to share with him or did it have to do with how Brusus had broken into the building?

  Brusus grunted. “Too simple, Rsiran. These are boxes. Shipping crates, to be exact. Carried on our ships from all over the world to be left here, in this warehouse, stacked to the ceiling and covered in dust and age. Crates stored for years, some for hundreds of years. All owned by the Elvraeth.”

  Rsiran’s heart skipped a beat. “Brusus… I worried about borrowing lorcith from my father’s smith and forging knives because I would attract the attention of the smith guild. We agreed that would be dangerous.” He had risked his safety in returning to the mine. “This…” he started but didn’t know how to continue. What was Brusus hiding from him? Why did he dare risk the mines if Brusus was going to taunt the Elvraeth?

  Brusus laughed, and the sound flooded out along the dirt floor of the warehouse. “The Elvraeth don’t even know what they have here! Their palace could not hold all of this. Some of these crates are hundreds of years old, never touched during all that time. Do you think the Elvraeth care?”

  Rsiran couldn’t begin to imagine what the Elvraeth cared about. They lived high above Elaeavn, sitting in the Floating Palace, ruling by the power of the abilities granted them by the Great Watcher.

  “Then what is all this?”

  He felt uncomfortable even being in the warehouse. Did he want to risk drawing any more attention from the Elvraeth? Rsiran imagined the council learning of him forging lorcith weapons, sentencing him to Ilphaesn, forced to find enough lorcith to earn his freedom. He couldn’t go back to the mines… not to stay. But worse than Ilphaesn was banishment.

  Brusus saw the anxiety on his face and set a comforting hand on his arm. “There is nothing to fear standing here,” he said softly. “Most among the Elvraeth don’t even know about the existence of the warehouse. How many of the Elvraeth have you ever seen leave the palace?”

  As far as he knew, none of the Elvraeth ever left the palace, sending servants instead. Those servants Rsiran had met over the years carried themselves with such an air of superiority that he almost believed they were Elvraeth, if not for the forest green cloak they wore to mark their station.

  “How could they not know about the warehouse?”

  Brusus looked at him with sadness. “Even living in Upper Town didn’t give you a clear understanding of the Elvraeth, did it? How many Elvraeth do you think live in the palace? How many separate families that we simply think of as one?”

  “There’s only one family. The Great Watcher—”

  Brusus cut him off. “Not one family. There are five separate families—all Elvraeth and all claiming gifts given to them by the Great Watcher. But how are their gifts any more special than what he has given you or me? What has given them the right to rule?”

  “Why are we here, Brusus?” Rsiran felt altogether too uncomfortable with where the conversation took them. What did Brusus think to do with a warehouse full of crates owned by the Elvraeth?

  “Secrets.” He looked out over the crates, reaching his hand to run it along one of the old and dusty boxes with faded black lettering that Rsiran could not read. “Think of what must be here, the stories that must be hidden within these crates, some here for nearly as long as this building has stood.”

  “Why do the Elvraeth store this here?” He was curious in spite of himself.

  Brusus stepped out into the warehouse. His stepped lightly, barely stirring up any dust, a confidence in his step in spite of how dark it was. With as weak as his abilities were, how did he manage? “Because what is here is not important to them.”

  Brusus walked down to one of the crates and tapped the side. The lettering on this box was faded but not nearly as badly as others around the warehouse. Rsiran recognized the style of writing but not the words.

  “This is from Asador,” Brusus said.

  Rsiran looked at the box. Asador was nearly as well known for its silks as for the university. And, to him, an exotic and foreign place. “What’s inside?”

  Brusus shrugged. “Don’t know. The Elvraeth don’t even know. And they don’t care.” He tapped another box farther down the line. “This is from Cort. And Thyr. And Gahlan.” He said each place, tapping another crate. “Think of what could be stored within these crates. Silks. Precious stones. Swords.” He tapped the Gahlan crate. “Could some have sent food? Herbs for healing?” he asked, knocking on crates from Cort. “Or had they sent fabrics, cloth so fine that even here in Elaeavn we would find them beautiful?” Brusus shook his head. “Most of what is here will never be known.”

  Rsiran thought of the child starving outside his new smithy. “But why? If it’s all so valuable—”

  Brusus nodded. “I had the same reaction, Rsiran. But as the Elvraeth have wealth, they do not value things the same as the rest of us. From what I’ve learned, everything stored here was simply gifted to the Elvraeth.”

  Rsiran looked around, seeing how massive the warehouse was and how many boxes were stored here. There were probably thousands. He could not imagine so much wealth that you simply did not care about it. “And you want to do what with this, exactly?”

  Brusus snorted and wandered farther down the line of boxes. Rsiran had to hurry to catch him, feet stirring up clouds of dry dust that sifted into his mouth with each step. He quickly raised his arm across his mouth.

  Rsiran almost reached Brusus as he ducked in between two towering stacks of crates that stretched nearly to the ceiling. They were carefully aligned so that they could not fall. The lowermost had barely visible lettering with lines that angled backward, sloping in harsh unreadable lines. The exterior of these was different than some of the others, and he ran his hand along the lower boxes, touching smooth wood that felt almost slippery to the touch, as if coated with fresh oil. As much as he hated the urge, he wanted to pry an end off, peer inside, and learn what secrets the Elvraeth hid here. Though they may not value the wealth stored within, Rsiran still did.

  He finally found Brusus standing in a small clearing of boxes. A window above had been cleared of much of the dust and dirt, leaving it smeared but letting more light stream into the warehouse, almost as if focused on this spot. The clearing was framed with six of the massive crates, all arranged in an even shape. All looked much like the last, strange angular lettering barely visible, the same smooth and glistening wood. He touched the nearest one and ran his hand across it, rubbing the oil between his fingers.

  “Why did you bring me here, Brusus?”

  Brusus turned and look at the crates, shaking his head, speaking softly. “Not long ago, I was hired for a job. Brought here to see an example of something before I did the job. I cannot imagine all that is stored here. Hundreds of years of history. Items of value and power.” He turned to look at Rsiran.

  He led Rsiran to a crate along the edge of the small clearing. Two other boxes were stacked atop it, both made of the strange old and oiled wood, their surfaces marked with the faded lettering that he could not read.

  The end of the crate had been forced open. Rather than splintering, the wood seemed to peel away in layers, looking more like stacked paper than any type of wood Rsiran had ever seen. Inside the crate, were
other smaller boxes. It was then he recognized the lettering. “Jessa had one of these.”

  Brusus nodded and an angry tilt came to his eyes. “She reclaimed one, yes.”

  “What’s in them?”

  Brusus slipped one of the boxes out. It was long and narrow and made of the same wood that the rest of the crate was made from, the surface slightly less slick. Two faded brass hinges mounted along one side, and a solid clasp held the lid closed. The lettering appeared burned into the wood, charred into the surface with the slashing writing.

  “Is there a key?” Rsiran asked.

  Brusus shrugged. “Probably was once. Not sure that even the Elvraeth would know anymore. It took me quite a while to figure out how to get into the crate. The wood wouldn’t gouge at all. Wasn’t until I tried chiseling it off that I realized I could simply peel apart the layers. Then it opened easy enough.”

  Rsiran grabbed one of the stacks of peeled wood. It bent easily enough but was still stiff, like bark peeled from a tree, nothing like the stiff sheaf of parchment it appeared to be. Taken together, the stack peeled from the crate seemed more like layers of something other than wood, with whatever oily substance he felt on the surface used to hold it together.

  Brusus pulled the worn leather pack out of his pocket and unrolled it again. Rsiran noted that he set it away from the crate and the stacked pieces from the end, careful to let the leather touch nothing but the packed dirt ground. Thumbing through the slender rods placed within the pack, he settled on one and took it out. As he worked it in the lock, he muttered to himself inaudibly. Finally, there was a soft click, and the clasp popped open.

  Rsiran realized he was holding his breath. As Brusus opened the lid, he let it out slowly. Inside, tucked into a soft velvet pad to keep it from moving, was a long metal cylinder with strange markings along the side, almost runes of a sort Rsiran had never seen, running from one end to the other.

  Brusus carefully lifted it and held it up, twisting it. The color of the metal seemed to shift and shimmer, drifting from gold to bluish grey to silver as he spun the cylinder. The runes along the sides took on more or less light, depending on how he twisted it, almost seeming to move.

  Rsiran blinked, and the effect stopped.

  Brusus handed it over to Rsiran, and he took it carefully. The cylinder was heavier than he expected, the metal denser than steel or even lorcith. Up close, the colors shifting along the shaft glimmered faintly, sliding from one to the next depending on how he held it. The markings, characters etched with painstaking detail and looking like animals or trees or even figures holding weapons, still moved, the effect unsettling this close. Each end of the cylinder was open, one seemingly tapered slightly more than the other.

  “Do you recognize it?” Brusus asked.

  Rsiran shook his head. “Not any alloy I have ever seen.”

  “What if it’s not an alloy?”

  Rsiran looked over to Brusus. “Then this is even more impressive. What sort of metal shimmers like this?”

  Brusus placed his narrow lock pick back into the leather pack and carefully rolled it back up, sliding it into his pocket before standing. “After hearing you talk about the different metals, I had hoped you might recognize it.”

  “What’s this for?” Rsiran held the cylinder in front of him. The craftsmanship that had gone into making it was impressive. More impressive was the level detail in the runes. He could almost imagine the tiny characters were alive.

  Brusus took it from him and set it back into the box. After closing the lid, he locked the clasp again. “I don’t know. I’ve opened nearly a dozen, and each is a similar shape but has different markings. Most seem to be made of the same metal, but a few were different. One was solid gold. Another silver. Haern thinks they are all part of something greater, meant to be assembled once the crates arrived in Elaeavn. Of course, he also tells me I should leave this place alone. Not sure how I could when they simply collect dust here in the warehouse.”

  “They are skillfully made.”

  Brusus nodded. “And likely worth nothing other than as a curiosity,” he said ruefully. “Oh, the gold one has value. As does the silver. But these,” he pointed to the small box, “made of some unknown metal are only valuable to collectors. The only collectors are the Elvraeth or those close to them.” He shrugged and pointed toward the opened crate.

  “What about outside of Elaeavn? There must be collectors in other cities.”

  Brusus nodded. “I’m certain there would be. The universities in Asador or Thyr would likely have interest, but there are problems with trying that. First is simple transportation. These boxes are quite heavy. Weight equals cost.” He smiled and shrugged. “The other is as problematic. I’m not ready to draw the full attention of the Elvraeth upon me. So… worthless. I’ve sent what I can with Firell—items that could come from anywhere—but there is much more here, much that I don’t fully understand.”

  Rsiran kneeled next to the box and ran his hand over the surface. He didn’t know what the cylinders were made from or their purpose, but was sure they weren’t worthless.

  “This crate is probably five hundred years old,” Brusus said. “And someone thought it important to ship to the Elvraeth.” He thumped the crate with an angry smack. “Now we’re left with questions, curiosity only, trying to understand what it is that was forgotten here all those years ago.”

  Each crate in the warehouse was nearly ten paces long and half as wide, standing nearly to his neck. Stacked as they were atop each other, the topmost one touched the ceiling. Inside each one there was so much wonder. Rsiran could not help but feel curious about what was in the others.

  “Is this the only one you’ve opened?”

  Brusus smiled and shook his head. “The only one that has proved interesting. Each has been challenging to open. I suspect the design is particular to the Elvraeth, something they requested, which is likely why these are so damned hard to break into. Probably why they store them here so openly. Who else would waste so much time trying to break into these crates?” he asked disgustedly. “The first took me nearly two nights to crack open. Two nights! And all it held was stacks of paper. The quality was fine enough, but had I known…” Brusus sighed. “Another held fabrics woven in a rough design and nearly worthless. There was one full of fine porcelain. Nice quality and painted with interesting detail, but that box took me a day and a half to crack.”

  In spite of Brusus’s apparent annoyance, Rsiran smiled. “How long did this crate take to open?”

  Brusus saw the tilt of a smile on his face and glared at him. “Nearly a week. Took me most of that time to figure out how to peel away the layers. Once I learned that, then it opened easily.”

  Could he Slide into one of the crates to see what they contained? Likely he would end up trapped… or worse. Injured or impaled on something inside. To Slide successfully, he needed to know there was an open place to emerge. He could not always tell that when he started. Maybe with enough practice he could get better, but for now, it would be safer to not risk it.

  “What were you asked to do?”

  “I wasn’t asked to do anything with the crates stored here,” Brusus admitted. “They were shown to me as an example. Probably a warning too. If they can leave all this wealth here, why do I matter?” Brusus ran his fingers along the nearest crate. “I doubt he even knows I’ve returned. Or maybe he does. The man who brought me here is like that crate. He works in layers. The outermost layer is not often the real reason. With him, I have learned to look deeper, peel away until I find something beneath. I still don’t know if I have peeled away enough, but I think there was another reason I was brought here.” Brusus looked with a longing expression at the crates.

  Rsiran could almost see him calculating how much wealth was stored within, could sense the disappointment he would have felt when this crate was finally opened only to learn that whatever was stored inside was not something he could easily sell.

  “Who showed them to y
ou?”

  Rsiran knew this must be where Brusus had gone the day after he’d first met him.

  Brusus looked up and met Rsiran’s eyes. For a moment, Rsiran thought there was a surge of green there but decided it must be some trick of the light coming through the dirty windows overhead.

  “Someone who is more at home here than I am.”

  “A merchant?”

  Brusus shook his head. “No merchant is allowed within this warehouse. As I said, I don’t think any but a select few of the Elvraeth even know what is stored here.”

  “If none other than the Elvraeth know about the warehouse, then how did your…” Rsiran trailed off as he suddenly understood. “One of the Elvraeth showed this to you?”

  Which meant Brusus owed money to one of the Elvraeth. Brusus’s desire for Rsiran’s knives took on new urgency. Brusus didn’t simply need a little money. With the Elvraeth involved, Rsiran couldn’t begin to fathom the sums Brusus might owe. And maybe the overheard comment about a rebellion had something more to it.

  Brusus held his gaze. “Not from one of the high families, but he knew and showed me to this place.” Seeing the puzzled look, Brusus explained. “As I told you, the Elvraeth are not simply one family—they are many, all joined by common bloodlines. But only the high families rule, the families that trace their ancestors back generations ago to when they claim the Great Watcher himself gave them a gift.”

  The Elvraeth were gifted with varying degrees of all the known abilities. Some manifested more powerfully than others, but every member of the family had each ability in some form. It was this that granted the Elvraeth the right to rule, and they had ruled over Elaeavn since before it moved to the sea.

  “So the Elvraeth you owe money to brought you here?”

  Brusus shot him a look. “He brought me here to discuss a job.”

  Rsiran felt an itching in his head, like someone trying to Read him, and looked around. Other than Brusus, he thought they were alone.