The Dark Ability

by Holmberg, D. K.

  Rsiran remembered what Brusus had told him of the Elvraeth. He had wondered at the time how Brusus had known so much about them, had been impressed by the ease with which he discussed them. Had he only known!

  “There are really five families that live within the palace,” Della went on. “Each claims the surname Elvraeth, each claiming to be descendants of the first. Those five families each have a seat on the council.” She shook her head. “There are exceptions, but most within the Elvraeth are no better than school children. They fight. They scream. They form friendships. Some lose out. Fewer are banished, Forgotten. Stricken from their families and sent away from the palace, away from the city.”

  “And Brusus?”

  As Della looked over at Brusus, some of the anger seeped from her eyes. “Brusus was but an infant when his mother was banished. Her crime was one of curiosity, a dangerous trait among the Elvraeth. Earlier attempts at reform had failed, and she was deemed too risky for her house. So she was Forgotten. Her name was stricken from all records of the Elvraeth as if she never existed. Her parents turned their backs on her for their own protection. Her husband was taken from her and betrothed to another. Her child—Brusus—was sent from the palace with her. There could be no traces that she ever existed.”

  There was something about the way she spoke, some hint of long-repressed anger and sadness, that combined with the way she looked at Brusus, left Rsiran with a sudden question. “Were you banished, Della?” he asked. “Are you Brusus’s mother?”

  She smiled a sad smile and shook her head. “The Forgotten must leave Elaeavn, Rsiran. His mother left the city and cannot return. Doing so risks worse than banishment.”

  Rsiran did not know what punishment was worse than banishment, but did not ask. “Then how did Brusus stay in the city?”

  Della took a deep breath. “Some secrets are not mine to share, even if he grants permission. Know that he was well cared for. But, as his mother was banished, he will never be Elvraeth though he carries their bloodline.”

  Rsiran turned and watched the fire for a moment, thoughts turning over in his head. Brusus had abilities greater than he seemed. Regardless of whether his mother was Forgotten, he was of the Elvraeth. Even Della with her impressive healing abilities, her ability to Read, must have more of that bloodline in her than she admitted. “How many are there like him?”

  Della looked over at him. “How many?”

  Rsiran nodded. “You said that there are many Forgotten among the Elvraeth. Where do they go? How many are there like Brusus?”

  Della sighed again. “Not many like Brusus. It is rare that one so young is sent from the palace. Most Forgotten are banished as an example, a way of coercing the rest of the family. Few have children of their own. As to your other question, I cannot say where the other Forgotten have gone. They must leave Elaeavn. After they have gone, most leave no trail. Likely, they fade into their new home, into obscurity. That is the punishment the Elvraeth fear most.”

  Rsiran looked back to where Brusus rested, his breathing more steady and the color already returning to his cheeks. When he awoke, Brusus would know about his ability. There was no other way to explain how he managed to get him to the healer before the poison took his life.

  In spite of the fact that something good had come of his ability, he still felt unsettled. Exposed somehow.

  A cool shiver ran across his skin, and he huddled closer to the fire.

  Chapter 25

  Dusk had fallen by the time Rsiran finally left Della’s home. He stood outside her green-painted door. She lived on a small side street well away from the heavy traffic running up and down Sjahl Street, the sounds of the nearby market heard only as an occasional shout rising over a muted din. Even the waves crashing on the shore barely a dozen streets below were little more than a soft splashing, more soothing than anything. A crispness hung about the air, whether it was something real or a residual effect from the incense burning within Della’s home, Rsiran didn’t know.

  In the time he had visited, so much had suddenly changed. No longer was he alone, left to suffer for something he could not control. He had thought that few could really understand what he went through, the pain of being pushed away, banished to the mines. But that was nothing compared to what Brusus had experienced.

  Now more than ever before, Rsiran wanted to help Brusus. If whatever job he did for the Elvraeth failed, there was only one way Rsiran could help.

  Rsiran looked around the street and saw no one. He Slid.

  He emerged in the old smithy. The air stank of his forging the night before, the bitter scent of lorcith clinging to it. How had he missed the smell before? Brusus must have known and said nothing. He shook his head, wishing he would simply have been honest with him. Now Brusus lay sleeping, motionless after nearly dying in an attack that Rsiran could have prevented by simply Sliding them away before the sellsword had a chance to attack.

  He sighed. The past could not be changed. The only thing he had control over was what he did from here.

  As he looked around the smithy, a small breeze blew through the crumbled roof. Two of the lanterns still flickered with light, leaving shadows dancing across the floor. He glanced over at the forge, considering. Plenty of coal remained, more than enough to fire up the forge again and work the lorcith he had already collected. Between the blade he’d made last night and what remained hidden, he suspected they could sell his work for a nice profit. Then he would be back where he had been… needing to mine additional lorcith before he could do any more work.

  The urge to do more was strong. Much of the evening had been spent resting, sitting by the fire with Della, watching Brusus until she had sent him away to rest. Rather than resting, he felt energized.

  Rsiran changed into the dirty greys from the mine. And then, without thinking about it too much more, he grabbed the pick and the small hammer and Slid.

  Rsiran was cautious with this Slide, emerging in the wide opening before the mine’s branching tunnels split off. A wave of weakness washed over him, but less than he had felt during other Slides. Darkness engulfed him completely, and he backed against the wall until he felt the cool stone through his shirt. Then he stood motionless.

  There was a soft fluttering of air thick with the bitter scent of lorcith that pulled on his shirt. Somewhere to his left, muted voices echoed from the sleeping quarters. Likely it was still early enough that they were eating and only now preparing to settle in for the evening. No other sounds came.

  The lack of the steady tapping was both disconcerting and reassuring.

  Standing and listening did nothing but waste time. Now that he was within the mine, he could Slide with more accuracy.

  Gathering himself, he Slid into the deepest mine, emerging as close as he felt safe to the blunted end of the tunnel. Another wave of weakness hit him, and he staggered. His hand slammed into the stone, and he bit back a small scream. The hammer dropped from his grip and skittered across the ground, too loud in the silence of the tunnels.

  Rsiran held himself up, leaning on the stone for a few moments until the fatigue eased. He was still aware of it, felt as if he were heavier, but the overwhelming need to sit and rest had passed.

  Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Not for the first time, he wished for Sight.

  His hand throbbed, and he opened and closed his fist, working some of the pain away. Careless of him to drop the hammer. What if whoever mined at night had heard him? Rsiran suspected that they were Sighted. His only advantage was the ability to Slide.

  Searching with his foot, his boot pushed against the hammer and he leaned down and picked it up. His hand brushed the floor of the tunnel and seemed to hum, almost as if pulsing in time with the throbbing he felt from slamming into the stone.

  The sensation was distinct and unmistakable. Lorcith.

  He had never considered that the ore might be beneath him. Always he had mined along the walls, once nearly overhead, but had not thought to listen for lo
rcith beneath him. How many others had neglected mining below them as well?

  He ran his hands along the stone, feeling for lorcith. His palms practically sang with the music. All around him were deposits, nuggets both massive and small.

  There was no need for another massive nugget. The one he worked last night would be too large to effectively forge. Maybe with another smith working alongside him, he might be able to manage forging something larger, but as it was, he needed smaller—more manageable—deposits. Something better for making knives, whatever it took to pay Brusus’s debt.

  Rsiran stopped when he felt a fist-sized nugget in the ground. The sensation was a tingling, almost a vibration, that shot up his arm. Lorcith called in his mind like a song, demanding its release.

  The sense was more potent than it had ever been, a louder sensation that seemed to resonate within him. Did focusing on it make it easier for him to locate the lorcith?

  Tucking the hammer into his pants, he grabbed the pick and took a deep breath. Then he swung.

  The strike rang out loudly. A small spark flickered briefly where the pick struck the stone. Rsiran waited, listening carefully for the sounds of anyone moving within the tunnels, but—other than his heavy breathing—he heard nothing.

  He struck at the stone again. Again he waited, listening.

  At first, he paused to listen every few strikes. After a while, he fell into a rhythm: picking away at the rock for a few beats and then pausing for a handful of heartbeats. He made slow work but managed to free the nugget of lorcith and tucked it into a pocket.

  Rsiran sat on the floor for a few moments running his hand across the stone, feeling for another smaller sized lump. He found what he sought near where the floor sloped up toward the wall. Larger collections were all around, each easily larger than any he had mined before. Larger than any he had ever seen his father purchase. Part of him wished he had time to mine one of them. What would such a massive lump of lorcith direct him to forge it into?

  After resting another moment, Rsiran stood and started again, striking at the smaller nugget buried near the corner of the wall, still pausing to listen.

  It was during one of these pauses that he felt a change to the breathing of the cave.

  Dry wind blew against his skin, the bitter spice of lorcith mingling with dusty stone chipped away by countless miners over the years. Rsiran felt something different—almost like an interruption in the expected flow—and the air suddenly smelled of sweat and blood.

  No longer was he alone.

  He stiffened but heard nothing.

  Rsiran sniffed the air softly, carefully. There was no mistaking the odor.

  He saw nothing in the mines other than shades of black. That meant nothing to him. Someone could be standing right in front of him, and he wouldn’t know it…

  There was a sudden gust of air, as if something moved quickly toward his face.

  Rsiran didn’t hesitate. He Slid two steps away.

  He emerged from the Slide as something thumped against the wall. Whoever attacked him grunted softly as if staggering into unexpected nothingness.

  His attacker was Sighted but Rsiran had the advantage of Sliding.

  Mixed with his fear, hot anger boiled up. Whoever attacked him was likely the same as before. Maybe even the same person who had nearly killed him. Were it not for his ability to Slide, he would have died within the mine weeks ago.

  That memory burned within him. All Rsiran had wanted was to serve out his time, collect enough lorcith to impress his father so that he could return to Elaeavn. If not redeemed then at least forgiven. The attacks had taken that away from him, had driven him to be something—someone—else. And he should be thankful for the push, but at the moment all he felt was rage.

  Rsiran jumped forward toward where he had heard the attacker stumble. His fingers brushed the edge of rough fabric and he grabbed tightly. Then he Slid.

  Emerging in the clearing before the mouth of Ilphaesn, clear moonlight spilling down seeming as bright as the sun to eyes adjusted to darkness, he tore his attacker with him. The connection prolonged the Slide, seemed to stretch it out like hot metal pulled apart, but Rsiran did not let go.

  Then his attacker appeared in the clearing. With an angry push, Rsiran shoved him away.

  Rsiran staggered. After so many Slides in one day, he should be nearly spent. Anger seemed to feed his focus.

  When he turned to see his attacker, Rsiran nearly staggered again.

  It was the boy.

  “You?” he asked.

  The boy backed away. The advantage of his Sight suddenly stolen from him, he shrunk toward the safety of the mines. He clutched a large burlap sack tightly in his fist, and he shook it, as if considering swinging it toward Rsiran. His other hand clutched his mining pick in a trembling grip.

  “How did you…” The boy looked around, his eyes widened, as if suddenly realizing where he was. His body shook, tremors racking him, and he took another step back toward the closed mouth of the mines. Iron bars blocked the entrance, and he slammed up against them, as if hoping to squeeze between and reenter.

  “You attacked me? But you tried to help me!”

  The boy shook his head. Green eyes darted from side to side. “Not help. You can hear the metal. I know you can,” he said accusingly. “But you take too much. Always too much.” His head swiveled as he looked for some way to escape. “I tried to warn you. Take nothing but small rocks. Leave the larger alone, but you didn’t listen.”

  Rsiran took an angry step forward, stopping when the boy raised the pick up in front of him. “Why do you care how much I take? There is more than enough lorcith in the mines!”

  The boy shook his head. “Not for them. They will not have it.”

  “Who? Who will not have it?”

  The boy turned his head, his eyes wild and darting. He tilted his head toward the village near the base of Ilphaesn and then looked toward Elaeavn.

  Rsiran glanced over his shoulder. From where they stood, Elaeavn spread out beneath them, clearly visible in the moonlight. None of the illusion could be seen near Ilphaesn; rather than creating the effect of the sheer rock walls, buildings looked as they were. Even the palace did not appear to float from where they stood.

  Soft shuffling came from behind him and he whipped his head around.

  The boy had the pick raised and ran toward him. His burlap sack lay on the ground near the mouth of the cave entrance. Rsiran Slid toward the sack. The boy skidded across the ground where Rsiran had been.

  Picking up the sack, it fell open to reveal lumps of lorcith filling it. “Why do you collect the lorcith?”

  The boy caught himself and turned, holding the pick threateningly in front of him. Here, under the moonlight where Rsiran could see him, he did not feel as frightened as he did deep within the mines. At least here he could Slide away.

  “That is mine!”

  Rsiran hefted the bag, surprised by its weight. How much had the boy harvested during the night? Where did he put all that he collected?

  “What’s this for?”

  “They cannot have it!” he shouted. Then he lunged again.

  Rsiran Slid away, moving only a few steps with the Slide. Short distances were not as taxing as longer travel.

  “Why do you care what they have?”

  The boy leaned on his pick, his breathing heavy. “They do not understand it like I do. They want to force it to become something it is not.” His eyes darkened.

  “The smiths? Is that who you don’t want to have the metal?” Rsiran knew how his father felt about lorcith, the way he spoke about learning to ignore the call of the ore, that a smith must learn to exert his will upon it, craft it into something of the smith’s choosing, not what the lorcith would choose.

  The boy shook his head. With his long hair and the pout to his face, he seemed ragged and wild.

  “Why don’t you use what you have to buy your freedom?”

  “Freedom? I have more freedom in the
mines than I do in Elaeavn. At least the days are mine here.”

  “But why attack me? I did nothing to you!”

  The boy sneered. “You help them. You bring the metal to them.”

  “I did nothing but try to earn my way out of the mines. I can’t help it that I hear the lorcith. You must understand how difficult it is to ignore.”

  He snorted. “Difficult? Not difficult. You bargain with it, tell it you’ll come back. That is the trade you need to make.”

  “Is that why you go back at night?”

  He shook his head. “Not just me.”

  Rsiran frowned. “What do you mean?”

  The boy’s face changed, his eyes alighting with a strange energy. “You don’t know?” he said, watching Rsiran’s face. Then he giggled in a high-pitched sort of sound. “He doesn’t know.” He shook his head. “Lucky for you I found you first. If it was the other…”

  “What other?” Rsiran asked. Could there have been another working the mines at night? As implausible as this boy wandering alone in the dark, making bargains with the lorcith during the day to return later, he had heard the tapping while talking with the boy those first nights in the mines. And he didn’t think the boy had been the one to attack him. He had seemed genuinely concerned. “Who else mines the lorcith at night?”

  The boy skittered away from Rsiran. “I want to go back.” He hopped on his feet, dancing around a bit as if cold.

  “Back? Into the mine?”

  The boy nodded.

  “You could be free,” Rsiran suggested. He wouldn’t take him back to Elaeavn, but he could return on his own if he wanted to.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “What freedom? Freedom to run every time I see a constable? Freedom to hide along streets? Freedom to dig for scraps?” He shook his head. “Here I am free to work. Free to eat. I know where my freedom lies. I choose to stay.”

  “There are other freedoms to be found in the city.” Like the freedoms he had found with his new friends. Surely they would take the boy in as well? “I won’t take you back into the mine.”