The Dark Ability: Books 1-4

by D. K. Holmberg

  Rsiran closed his eyes. He hadn’t figured out how, but Josun knew. “He knows about Brusus. He knows how I saved him. And he knows of my sword. I can’t simply do nothing.”

  “And doing what he wants will fix what he knows?”

  Rsiran sighed and opened his eyes. “No. But it buys me time.”

  Jessa peered around the tavern, head tilted slightly forward so she could breathe in the fragrance of her flower. “I’ll talk to Haern.”

  “Is that wise? Should we be including more people in this?”

  “Brusus would include him.”

  “Are you sure? Brusus didn’t seem to have included Haern in the warehouse.”

  Jessa looked offended by the suggestion. “They have known each other for as long as I’ve been in Elaeavn. I think he would trust Haern.”

  “Then talk to him. See what he thinks.”

  She reached for the pouch on the table, and Rsiran caught her hand. As Jessa looked up at him, her eyes flashed with a hint of anger before softening.

  “Why don’t I keep this safe? I’ll hide it at the smithy, keep it buried in the coals.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Safe? Like that sword you crafted?”

  Rsiran felt his heart skip. The sword was part of the reason he was forced to do what Josun wanted. Had he only managed to do what his father asked—had he only managed to ignore the song of the lorcith—the Elvraeth might not have quite as much on him.

  He still wanted to know how the blade had gone missing. How had the Elvraeth even learned of the sword in the first place?

  “Where do you suggest?” he asked.

  She sat for a moment, chewing her lip as she thought. Her head tilted down so that she could sniff the flower, and a few strands of her hair fell into her face. She ignored them, and Rsiran fought the urge to reach over and brush them away.

  Finally, she sighed. “Perhaps they are safer at the smithy.” She pulled her hand away from the pouch and placed it on his arm. “Promise me you will wait for me to do anything.”

  Rsiran considered his answer before nodding.

  “Promise me, Rsiran!”

  “I promise.”

  He hated that he already knew he would not keep the vow.

  Chapter 29

  Rsiran stood over the forge. The coals glowed hot, sending faint tendrils of smoke out into the smithy and up through the wide stone chimney. Sweat dripped on his brow, staining the grey shirt from the mines that he wore. The clothes Brusus had given him lay folded near the back of the smith for now. The air stank with the bitter smell of a mixture of his sweat, and the heated lorcith he gripped with the tongs borrowed from his father.

  When the lorcith was ready, when it glowed a faint orange bright enough to see, indicating it was workable, he hurried to the anvil, set the heated lump atop the surface, and began hammering. As usual, he felt the lorcith drawing on him, pulling on his mind and guiding each strike. The shape emerged quickly.

  Another knife.

  In less than an hour, he had managed to shape the knife to his and the lorcith’s satisfaction. As it cooled, he set it alongside the others. Already there were half a dozen, and he had only been working this one night. Anything to take his mind off what the Elvraeth asked of him.

  He could not shake the question of how Josun knew of the sword. Rsiran had only forged it the night before, and in that time, he had learned of the blade and taken it. Now he used it as leverage against them. Had he Read him? But that would mean Josun had been around him before, but when?

  Sighing, he picked up one of the knives and twisted it in his hand. The deep silver of the lorcith gleamed with a dull light, the metal seeming to slide as he twisted it. The effect was the result of how he had folded it during the forging, the lorcith itself guiding his hands. This time, he recognized what was happening, recognized the technique from when he had forged the missing sword blade. The recognition made the work go more quickly, almost as if the lorcith strove to teach him.

  Already he had learned more from simply working with the lorcith than he had ever learned from his father.

  The realization angered him. From his father, he learned what he could not do. An apprentice smith must not attempt forging without his master’s permission. A smith cannot forge a weapon for killing unless directed by the Elvraeth. And worst of all, a smith must not listen to the guidance of the lorcith.

  Only it was with this guidance that Rsiran truly came to understand what he was doing and what he was capable of creating.

  Each of the knives was different. Some were folded like the sword, the metal having that strange quality where it appeared to slide across itself. Others looked more like traditionally forged lorcith, the deep silver a solid color without any signs of the bizarre shimmering. A few had an interesting embossing, as if the metal had wanted to leave the hammer imprint along the surface. Each was beautiful in its own way, and each carried his small mark near the base of the blade.

  But he suspected that mark would be the real leverage Josun would use against him.

  Rsiran shook his head and turned back to the knives. Had he a grinding stone, he would have sharpened them. As it was, they lay forged and formed, but not quite ready for use. Perhaps that was best.

  The brown burlap sack containing the rest of the lorcith lay next to the bellows, the top bunched and pressed down so that the ore inside was easily accessible. He was tempted to grab another lump and get back to crafting, but the effort of his work throughout the night had already begun draining his energy. There was more he needed to do before the night was over.

  Looking over to the table, he had dragged from the far side of the smith, its once stained surface now faded and chipped, he considered the small leather pouch sitting among the dust. Handprints marred either side of the table where he had gripped it, creating a ring around the pouch. Made of a supple leather and died a deep brown, the pouch was otherwise unremarkable. A single braided black drawstring pulled it closed.

  Rsiran had almost refused when he realized the target of the demonstration. Not the entirety of the Elvraeth as he had indicated at first, but the council itself. Josun wanted the council to feel weakened. He wanted them poisoned.

  There was only one reason Rsiran could think of—the rebellion he’d overheard. And Jessa thought Josun wanted to sit on the council himself. Why should Rsiran care about Elvraeth politics? What did he care who ruled on the council? Why did he care which of the Elvraeth ruled? What difference did it mean for him?

  He had never expected to be pulled into the lives of the Elvraeth. Now that he was, he wanted nothing more than to be free of them. Even if he succeeded in what Josun asked, would he really be free?

  No. And that was the problem.

  But what could he do? How could he keep his new friends safe?

  Nothing but do what Josun asked.

  He sighed. The leather pouch held a small quantity of poison. Nothing too toxic, he was promised, nothing fatal. Josun did not want any of his family injured, only weakened enough that they would realize what had happened. All Rsiran and Jessa needed to do was mix a small amount of powder into a pitcher and make sure it reached the Elvraeth council. Rsiran hadn’t worked out how Josun would take a place on the council, but suspected that was another layer he had yet to discovered. Were Brusus well enough, he could ask him.

  Rsiran suspected the task would be easy enough. He could Slide into the palace, deliver the powder, and Slide out. If he was fast enough, he would not even be seen. And that was what the Elvraeth planned. If he didn’t act, Jessa would try to sneak her way into the palace. He needed to move before she ended up doing something foolish and got caught.

  They would go together, Sliding into the palace, doing what Josun wanted done, and then Sliding back out. Only Rsiran wasn’t certain he wanted Jessa involved at all.

  Her Sight would help. In the palace, all of the Elvraeth would have some ability of Sight so he did not expect there to be much light. But the thought of her risking
capture and banishment nauseated him.

  As he stared at the pouch, he realized he was simply wasting time. If he was going to do something before Jessa tried on her own—and likely without him—he would have to do it soon.

  Not tonight, though. Jessa had not yet returned, and he had spent too much time at the forge to have the energy needed to Slide into the palace.

  But not to Della’s place.

  After changing back into the cleaner clothes, he pocketed a pair of the forged knives. Then he Slid to the healer’s home.

  Emerging from the Slide did not seem to take as much energy out of him as it usually did. The usual fire in her hearth had burned down. Incense and medicine hung heavy in the air, covering a faint sickly odor. Della lay asleep in the chair next to the fire, a thickly knitted blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He looked around and saw Brusus lying on the cot. His chest rose and fell slowly, and his eyes were closed.

  “He has not woken again.”

  Rsiran turned and saw Della still staring at the fire. She had noticed his arrival, as if sensing him. “When will he?”

  She shook her head. “Not sure yet. The blade was tipped in clohth powder. Rare here but common enough in Neelan. It took me a little while to determine what they used on the blade. Only when I knew what it was could I work to counteract it. Unfortunately, I might not have been fast enough.”

  “But you stopped the bleeding.”

  She turned her head to look up at him. Her face was drawn and tired. “But maybe not in time. Only the Great Watcher knows what will happen now. He has a strong body, and thankfully, you got him here quickly.”

  Rsiran closed his eyes, feeling the same sense of angst he had felt all day. “I could have Slid us both away from the warehouse before he attacked.”

  Della nodded. “Aye.” She turned her tired eyes toward Brusus. “But you did what you could at the time. You are not a Seer, Rsiran. You could not have known the sellsword would attack.” She shook her head. “We all have secrets. Brusus has his own that he keeps for his own reasons. His reasons are much the same as yours, you know.” Her deep green eyes seemed to flare, and her brow furrowed. “Each of us must decide in time what we can and cannot do. Each of us must learn what it is that motivates us. Only then can we be free to do what we must. Only then can we be free from fear.” She smiled sadly as if Reading his thoughts. “Yes, fear. Fear of who we are. Fear of what we might become. Fear of what others might think. Fear of acting.”

  Not for the first time, Rsiran wondered how much she knew. “I’m more afraid of not acting.”

  Della smiled. “That is a choice as well. When you know what you value, you will know what you must do. Do not do what you think others want from you. That is a path I know all too well. That is a path to sadness and disappointment.”

  Rsiran didn’t say anything. Up until recently, he had always done what was expected of him. He had been the supportive brother to a sister more skilled than he, had worked diligently in the smithy learning how to care for the forge and the rest of the smithy, had fought against the only ability he possessed, had willingly gone to work in the mines of Ilphaesn, and nearly died. All because it was what others wanted from him. He no longer knew what it was that he wanted.

  But, he decided, that wasn’t entirely true.

  He wanted to be accepted and cared about. Why was that too much to ask of his family? He hadn’t gotten in so deep that he couldn’t return to his home. If he returned, showed his father that he could be contrite, and promised to abandon and ignore the ability to Slide, he might have the chance at redemption.

  And then he would always know what he had sacrificed.

  Rsiran sighed. Not for the first time, he wished his family would simply have accepted him as he was, accepted that he was gifted with a different ability. Without his ability, he would have died within the mines. Brusus would have died on the street outside the warehouse.

  “I need to help Brusus,” he whispered.

  Della looked up at him and frowned. “You have already helped him, Rsiran. Anything more puts you and your friends at risk.”

  “Doing nothing might put him in as much risk.”

  Della stood and hobbled over to him. Over the last few weeks, she had grown increasingly weak. How much of that was his fault? The effort of Sliding weakened him; the longer the Slide the more fatigued he felt. How could her strange healing be so different?

  “I am sorry,” he told her.

  She laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder. There was still much strength in her grip. She smiled at him, and some of the age melted from her face. “Only apologize for your own mistakes.”

  “See that he gets these.” He pulled the unsharpened knives from his pocket and set them onto one of the side tables.

  Della picked up one of the knives and held it out, twisting it so it caught the remnants of firelight. Even from where Rsiran stood, the metal seemed to slide.

  “They are beautifully made. I have not seen work like this in many years. Back before…” She trailed off and turned to him. “You must be careful in making these. There are those among the Elvraeth who fear such weapons. Especially like this.”

  “Why?”

  “The Elvraeth are powerful but even their power has limits.” She waggled the knife in the air. “There are blades that can limit even their power.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She shook her head. “Pray to the Great Watcher that you never have to.” She nodded at the knives. “These are beautiful. And dangerous.” Her eyes turned to Brusus. “Do you know who he planned to sell them to?”

  Rsiran knew very little about Brusus’s plans for the knives, only that he had a buyer willing to pay. “I don’t know.” Possibly Shael, but he didn’t really know. “Will you get them to him when he awakens?”

  She nodded. “I will. But Rsiran, you are free to visit him anytime. I have not closed my home to such things.”

  Rsiran didn’t see how she could close her home to his Sliding. “There is something I must do, and I wanted him to see that I haven’t been idle while he was sick.”

  Della laughed. “I doubt he would ever think that.” She moved past him to Brusus. She hummed softly as she looked under a dressing on his chest. A sense of energy built in the air as she hummed, and the sound was soft but haunting and beautiful.

  Rsiran sighed and then Slid away from her home.

  He emerged in the alley next to the Wretched Barth. A pair of black cats peered at him in the darkness of the alley, and one yowled softly as he passed. Why had he Slid here?

  At this time of night, the tavern would be mostly quiet. Any activity from earlier in the evening would have died out as the tavern goers went off to their homes or to rented beds. Rsiran stood on the street, the flickering lantern giving him enough light to see through the shadows of the overcast sky. He stared at the building where he was first introduced to Brusus and his friends. The sounds of the harbor were quiet with only the steady washing of waves against the shore. Something pulled on him, like the call of lorcith, but he did not know why.

  “You seem distracted, Rsiran.”

  He turned. Haern watched him from the shadows of a nearby building. He wore a deep green shirt with simple embroidery—something much fancier than Rsiran usually saw him in—and simple brown leather pants. Grey hair hung loose around his head, and his eyes had a deep green hue.

  “Haern? What are you doing here?”

  Haern’s mouth tightened. It was about as much of a smile as he had ever seen from him. “If I weren’t a Seer, I might ask the same of you.”

  “You came to find me?”

  Haern nodded and stepped away from the shadows. Light from the lantern reflected off well-polished boots. “I know what you are, Rsiran.”

  Rsiran blinked slowly. He would have to get used to others knowing about his ability. Already Della, Brusus, and Jessa knew. And now Haern. “Did Jessa tell you?” He couldn’t fault her for sharing with Haern but wishe
d she had spoken to him about it first. Of those he had diced with, he knew the least about Haern.

  But Haern shook his head. “Didn’t need to.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  Haern’s mouth twitched. “I’ve worn the grey myself. I can’t say how many would recognize the dress, but as someone who has lived in those mines, worked the caverns of Ilphaesn, I can tell you I’ll never forget.” He stepped forward again. “Did you escape?”

  Rsiran shook his head but caught himself. That wasn’t entirely true. “When were you sentenced?”

  Haern’s face clouded, almost as if drawing in the shadows around him. “I was young. Foolish. And I made a claim that I should not have made.” He shrugged. “It is so long ago that I don’t really remember the details. I remember the clothes. I remember the bitter way the mine smelled. I remembered hating the dark.” Haern shivered. “And when you came to the Barth wearing the greys, I recognized them. Why didn’t you change into something else?”

  Rsiran glanced down at his attire, different now that Brusus had given him nicer clothes to wear. But the greys from Ilphaesn did not bother him. And they suited him.

  “I don’t mind the greys.” The color reminded Rsiran of the lorcith mined within Ilphaesn. Most wouldn’t understand.

  Haern cocked his head and looked at him strangely. “Most could not wait to change into something else after earning their release. Myself included. Most I know felt it was too much of a reminder of where they had come from—a place to which none wanted to return.”

  “I didn’t think the mines were so bad. Just the miners.”

  Haern did smile then, the scar on his face twisting strangely. “Then why did you run?”

  “I didn’t run.”

  Haern looked at him and the expression on his face changed. If anything, it hardened. “What do you mean?”

  Rsiran shook his head. The look on Haern’s face should have warned him, but he was tired of hiding what he was. Too many already knew anyway. “You’re the Seer.”

  The green of Haern’s eyes flashed deeper, and his face went slack as he focused on Rsiran. Rsiran felt a soft sense in his mind, like a puff of air, and then it was gone. Haern’s face never changed.