The Dark Ability (12 page)

R
siran slowly wound
through darkened streets. Could Della be right? Should he return to the mines or should he stay in Elaeavn? Staying meant losing his apprenticeship, but would his father ever really welcome him back?

How long would he be stranded in the mountain? How long before his father cared enough to check on him? Maybe he would never check, deciding instead to let Rsiran linger and fade while working in the mines.

If not for Sliding, he would have died there. Maybe that was what his father wanted.

No one cared for him, so what did it matter if he returned?

Only, that wasn’t true. Brusus seemed to care, and his friends. And Rsiran had told Brusus he couldn’t help him, couldn’t help the one person who had bothered to reach out to him in the last five years. Turned his back on something he asked…something
small
that Rsiran could do.

He spent so much time denying his abilities, that maybe it was time he embraced them. If not for Sliding, he would be dead in the mines, poison and a massive wound in his back leaving him to die in the darkness, no one to find him until the following morning. If not for Sliding, he wouldn’t have been brought to Della’s home. If not for Sliding, he would have died… not once, but at least twice.

Why should he deny himself an ability like that? Why would he deny his ability to listen to the lorcith?

Why would his sister, his mother, his
father
want him to be anything other than what the Great Watcher made him to be?

He turned and started toward Upper Town. The wind gusted against him, swirling through the buildings and seemingly pushing him as he walked. He passed by a small florist, a sign above the door that of brightly colored petals and a deep green stem, and wondered if this was where Jessa would find her flowers, before deciding she would not. Jessa would find her own, always had flowers that fit her. None of the beautiful and delicate flowers in the window seemed like her. The flowers she wore were different, unusual, and yet still beautiful.

He passed one of the other smithies. The lights were out, the scent char and hot metal radiating to the street from a cooling forge within. A sense of longing stirred in his chest, a sense of something missing. He walked on.

As he walked further up the street, the roadway widened gradually to wind its way up the cliff side toward the palace. In the distance, the peaks of the small outermost spires rose above the city, the twisting towers mimicking the natural stone of the rock. But from his angle it stood out, making it appear to be floating. The farther he walked, the more the palace shifted, each of the many spires taking on the illusion.

Rsiran stopped when the entire palace seemed to float.

This was the point in the city where the Floating Palace took its name. In the daylight, the sun struck the rock so that the walls simply vanished, the spires and towers seeming to float unattached to the rest of the cliff. In the moonlight, it looked impossible.

Time passed as little more than the shifting of clouds and the fading moon. The Floating Palace did not change—had never changed—but lights in the windows came and went. The wind blowing up off the sea, skittering across the dusty streets of Lower Town, blew up toward him, losing the fishy stink of the harbor as it stretched toward Upper Town, always holding the salty hint of the sea.

The healer was right. Now was a time for deciding, a time to choose whether he would Slide back to the mines, return to his life, to the chance of his apprenticeship resuming, or whether he would not. There seemed to him no other choice to make.

Returning would be easy. The pattern to the mines was now familiar: awake, eat, mine, eat, try to sleep, and hide from the others in the mine. Only Rsiran never managed to hold to the pattern, always finding some way to disturb things. Whether it was struggling to sleep or finding some massive lump of ore, he never really held to the pattern. Even there, among criminals and thieves—maybe worse—he did not fit in.

Not returning created new challenges. Did he dare stand up to his father, tell him that he could not stand another day working the mines, trying—and failing—to ignore the call of the lorcith? Did he dare admit that mining had almost killed him?

Would his father even care?

As much as he did not want to admit the truth to himself, that last bothered the most.

Finally, Rsiran stood. The stillness and the cold had stiffened him, and he stretched. Pain pulled on the tight flesh of his back. The freshly stitched injury on his neck burned but not with the pain he knew it should, and he was thankful for whatever the healer had done to lessen his injury. Rsiran Slid.

Familiar walls of his home pressed upon him. Down the hall, toward the kitchen, he smelled the remnants of last night’s dinner. The other end of the hall opened into the small sitting quarter. Once a place of happiness for him, a place where he and Alyse would play, a place where his parents would sit and talk, a place where they read to him and his sister. But those were times
before
.

Standing in the room, looking down at the small metal sculptures made by his father over the years that lined the hearth, at the solid wooden chairs and the simple rug thrown across the floor, he felt as if he didn’t even recognize the place.

He turned. There, standing in the hallway, was Alyse.

“Why did you come back?” she hissed. “He sent you away. Sent you to the mines.”

Away. That had been what she said first. “And that pleased you?”

Alyse’s face softened. “Whether it pleased me or not makes no difference. It was for the best.”

Something in what she said struck a nerve. Only then did Rsiran move, stepping back. “He was never going to call me back.”

Alyse hesitated, and in that moment, Rsiran knew the painful truth. “I don’t know.”

For a moment, he considered returning to his room and grabbing the remaining items he felt were his. A long coat. A few puzzles. A couple of shirts. But he decided against it. Other than the knife and the coin he had taken the other night, there was nothing else of value.

Turning his back on his sister, he prepared to Slide. “Goodbye, Alyse. You will not see me again.”

Then he Slid from the house.

D
awn dusted the horizon
, grey light filtering through clouds. Overhead, the gulls still circled and cawed. He was not sure whether they chased or supported him. This close to the water the heavy crashing of the waves thundered against the shore. The sound of fishers and dockworkers filled the harbor.

The tavern was silent. Rsiran realized that he had never visited it this late in the night—or early in the morning—but it was the only place he thought to go. He was tired, his body aching and feeling like he had not slept in weeks rather than missing a night of sleep. Hunger rumbled his stomach.

If he did not return to Ilphaesn, he had no place to go.

Part of him struggled with his decision, a distant part of his mind pleading with him to return to the mines, to do what his father asked of him so he could return home, could continue his apprenticeship, could return to work the forge.

Rsiran shoved that voice aside.

“You look lost.”

Rsiran jumped at the voice and turned. Brusus stood near the corner of an alley that led up and around the tavern. He was dressed in a dark brown overcoat and had a small wooden box like the one Jessa claimed for him clutched under his arm. His pale green eyes seemed to flicker as he looked Rsiran over, glancing only briefly at his dress. Rsiran wondered again at what Brusus’s weak ability might be; probably something useful even weakened, something like Sight.

“Brusus…” His heart hammered for a moment, and he felt guilty about how he had left things the last time he saw the man. Brusus had helped him without any expectation of repayment, and now, if he stayed, he would never be able to repay him. But Brusus had welcomed him, worried about him. It was more than could be said about his family.

“I… I don’t have anywhere to go,” he finally admitted.

Brusus didn’t hesitate. He simply moved forward, shifting the wooden box under his arm, and placed the other arm around Rsiran’s shoulders, pulling him down the street. “You can’t sleep in the street,” he said as they walked.

This close, Brusus smelled of aged cedar and dust. A grey film covered his collar and smeared across his coat that reminded him of the mines.

“Your ’ship?” Brusus asked, steering him toward a side street that looked vaguely familiar. Small twisted trees grew between the buildings, barely rising over the rooftops. Weeds peeked between the stones. There was garbage and the hint of sewage in the air. No one else walked the street at this time of night.

Rsiran sighed and nodded. “My… father,” he started. “He is displeased with my work. I am no longer welcome at his forge.”

Brusus led him to the back of a small squat house and twisted a small key in the lock. He paused before opening the door. “You know the thing I hated most about the ’ships?”

Rsiran shook his head.

“It’s the way the masters make you feel. The way they think they
have
to make you feel. Like you’re worthless… until suddenly you aren’t. Then they call you a journeyman and let you do actual work. You know the difference between some of the apprentices and the journeymen I’ve met?”

“The journeymen have mastered—”

Brusus shook his head. “You’re falling into their trap again. Sometimes, the only difference is a day. Just
one day
separates a higher apprentice from a lower journeyman. The guilds can’t be satisfied with teaching their craft, they have to make a game of it, torment those working through their ’ships, have tests which never serve to test your skill—only your loyalty to the guild.”

Rsiran wondered what guild Brusus had served. What skill set did he have that he no longer used?

Brusus pushed the door open. “Sorry, but as you can see, I don’t have much space. You’re welcome to stay. Can’t have you sleeping on the street. Too cold at night. Too many dangerous people out.”

Rsiran felt a small smile come to his mouth. “You were out.”

Brusus flashed a smile in return as he pushed him through the doorway. “You don’t think I’m dangerous?” There was a hint of something dark in his tone, and Rsiran remembered the way that he’d felt about Brusus when he first met him.

Rsiran shook his head. “Not like some.”

Brusus lit a small candle, lighting the room. He was right… he didn’t have much space. A small room, barely more than five paces each way, held a hearth and a single chair. A plush woolen rug stained in a red and green checked pattern was the only real decoration. Two metal cook pots lay unused next to the hearth. Another darkened room led off to the side.

Brusus grabbed a rolled blanket and handed it to Rsiran. “You should get some rest. We can talk in the morning.”

Rsiran smiled. “I think it is morning.”

Brusus shrugged. “Later then. We’ll figure this out, Rsiran. I know it can be scary not knowing what to do next, but some of us have been there before.”

He started past, walking toward the unlit room. As he passed, Rsiran shifted the blanket around him and lay upon the carpet. It was as soft as it looked and much better than sleeping on the rock inside the mines. “Brusus?”

“Hmm?” Brusus paused in the doorway, the box he carried tilted. Strange writing was scrawled on the side in faded black lettering.

“If you can find me a forge, I’ll make more of the lorcith blades.”

Brusus shook his head. “Don’t. No obligation for letting you stay. Just friends, Rsiran.”

Rsiran nodded. “No obligation.” It was more than the desire to help Brusus. That was part of it, but what Brusus had said resonated in him like a hammer striking ore with the right speed, the way he usually felt when in the thralls of the lorcith. It wasn’t that he wanted to help Brusus. He wanted to stand before a forge again, wanted to feel the sweltering heat as he took the lump of metal and shaped it into something else, something
more
.

Whatever else he was, there would always be a part of him that was a smith, and he would no longer deny that any more than he would deny his ability to Slide or listen to the call of the lorcith.

“It is the only thing I know,” he said softly.

Brusus watched him for a moment, his face unreadable. “We can talk after you rest.”

“But, Brusus, I…” He hesitated before pushing forward. Brusus deserved some measure of truth from him. “I heard you that night we met. I know you’re in debt. If I can help—if the knives I can make can help…” Rsiran shook his head and met Brusus’s eyes. “I want to do what I can.”

Brusus watched him, considering. “I know what this means. Unsanctioned smiths are punished by the guild. Doing something like that risks more than your future.”

“I’ve already risked my future. I just want to stand before a forge again.” He couldn’t hide the longing in his voice.

Brusus nodded. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Then he disappeared into the room.

As Rsiran lay on the rug, blanket covering him, he knew that Brusus was right. The guild was possessive of the smiths. Anyone not operating within the guild was subject to fines. Sometimes worse.

He sighed. If not the forge, then what? He truly didn’t know anything else.

B
rusus was gone
when Rsiran awoke. Instead, Jessa sat in the small wooden chair next to the hearth, watching him sleep, a pale purple flower tucked into the loose brown shirt she wore. Her hair was brushed away from her face, leaving her thin lips in a line that almost resembled a smile. Dark green eyes that stared at him intently twitched slightly, as if she wasn’t certain how he would react.

“You’re awake,” she said. With one hand, she gripped her hair, twirling it in a way that was at once more feminine and youthful than Rsiran had ever seen of her. Of course, he suddenly realized, he had never seen her during the daytime.

He pushed himself up, shifting the blanket that had covered him. His neck hurt, aching and itching where the healer had placed the stitching. His back felt tight where he had first been injured, making his skin feel like it was too small for him, like leather soaked in water that had shrunk. Stretching helped. Would he always feel this way or would it eventually get better? If he ever saw the healer again, he would have to ask her.

“I am.”

The reality of what he had committed himself to struck him. By now, the mine would be up and active, names read, and they would know he was missing. How much longer until word reached his father that he had disappeared?

“How do you feel?”

The question seemed laced with accusation. Rsiran wondered how much of his injuries Jessa knew about, how much the healer had passed on to Brusus and his friends, or was much of what they had talked about kept confidential?

Rsiran shrugged. “I feel…” He trailed off, struggling to decide
how
he felt. Pain worked through him, but he had become familiar enough with the sensation over the last few weeks that he was no longer aware of it unless it flared or changed. His stomach rumbled, demanding that he be fed. Healing and weeks without much food took their toll. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt thick, as if he had spent the night drinking ale in the tavern. Were he left alone, he thought he might be able to lie back and sleep for another day or more.

But in spite of that, he felt a sense of release, of freedom. “I think… I feel fine.”

Jessa watched the emotions play across his face, her lips twisting into more of a smile. She snuck a sniff of the flower, and again Rsiran wondered how many had noticed her do that.

“Then get up. You’re coming with me.” She stood and watched him, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited.

He stretched again, each time making his body feel a little better. “Where?”

She shook her head. “I’d say breakfast, but it’s almost noon, so lunch? I could use a cup of tea.”

She pulled open the door and stepped into the street, waiting for him to follow. Dropping the blanket, he realized he was still dressed in the dark greys of the mine and waited for Jessa to react, but she did not. Would any others in the city recognize the dress? Surely there were some who had been sentenced and managed to mine enough lorcith to earn their freedom. Most would live in Lower Town as well.

Jessa flashed him an annoyed expression, and he decided it didn’t matter. He would simply Slide and grab some clothes later; change into something else.

At the doorway, he saw that the sky was blue and bright, thin clouds drifting overhead. No gulls circled as they had last night, chasing him until he found Brusus. The sky was empty, nothing but the warm sun nearly at its peak. How had he slept until midday?

“Where are you taking me?”

“Food,” Jessa said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

His stomach rumbled again at the mere mention of food. “I don’t… I don’t have any money.”

She turned and glared at him. “Who said anything about money? You Upper Town folks sure think about money an awful lot.”

Biting back the first thing that came to mind, Rsiran caught up to her and glanced over. “When did I say I was from Upper Town?”

Her smile widened. “Didn’t have to.”

She led him down the street as it twisted before meeting up with the main street running from the harbor all the way up to the Floating Palace. Rsiran couldn’t remember the last time he had been this far down in Lower Town during the day. Most of the errands his father had him run under the guise of his apprenticeship were to shops between Upper and Lower Town. Occasionally, he would be sent to fetch more supplies of ore, but even that was rare since most ore merchants delivered directly to the shop. Most often, Rsiran was responsible for delivering completed projects. That was a task he always despised, especially the way the Upper Town customers left him standing on the doorstep, never inviting him in, careful to barely even touch him as they took the project his father had been commissioned to work on off his hands. Early on, Rsiran had wondered why his father never made the deliveries himself, but now he thought he understood. In that, he agreed with his father.

The street was crowded. People moved from storefront to storefront, some dressed in simple dark pants and light shirts, others more formally in long, collared overcoats. A few looked to be shoppers from the Upper Town, but most looked to come from the middle section of the city and Lower Town. Carters with wheeled pushcarts loaded with purchases moved up the street, heading toward Upper Town. A few empty carters moved down the street to begin shopping. At least with the variety of dress he didn’t feel completely out of place. His mining clothing did not truly fit in, but didn’t stand out as he feared they might. Only another from the mines—or one of the Elaeavn constables—would recognize his attire.

The shops even looked different in the daylight. At night, what seemed faded and rundown still had a certain washed out appearance, paint long since faded or chipped, disappearing in the harsh sunlight that beat upon the stone, but the cracked stone and unsettling feeling he had wandering the streets was gone. The activity around the stores helped, and the merchants hawking at the doors gave a sense of urgency. There was a vibrancy to the Lower Town, a sense of life that he never really felt on the higher streets.

Standing on the intersection of the smaller street as it ran into the wide main street that wound all through the city, he looked up toward the palace. From where he stood, only one of the towers seemed to float, as if detached from the rest of the palace, an arm separated from the rest of the body. Even that had a certain grace unlike any other place in the city.

Jessa saw him looking and nudged him, pulling him into the throng of people. “Keep your eyes out of the clouds.”

Rsiran glanced over. “What do you mean?”

She nodded toward the palace. “None of us is ever gonna float like the Elvraeth do. Doesn’t do any good to set your eyes up there in the Floating Palace. Doing that only makes you feel bad about what you don’t have.”

Rsiran stared at the palace and wondered how difficult it would be to Slide inside. How long would it be before he was caught like the boy in the mine? Would he have time to explore, to see how the Elvraeth lived? Surely, the life they lived was nothing like his. Theirs would be one of freedom, of excess. Rsiran wanted simply to
see
it, to know how different they were from him.

“I don’t have anything,” he said softly.

Jessa shrugged and turned to her flower, sniffing the purple petals briefly. “Exactly. Why would you want to stare up there and feel bad about your place in this world? The Great Watcher might have a purpose for you, but it isn’t up there. Unlike those who have been simply handed their place, you have to find your own way, make your place. If you ask me, it’s better that way.”

Rsiran looked over to Jessa wondering if she was joking and saw nothing but an earnest expression on her face. He wondered if she had lived her whole life in Lower Town, if she had ever had a chance at an apprenticeship, if she knew what it was like to lose your future. Lose everything that you knew. The way she looked at him, the pain that hid behind her deep green eyes, told him that she had felt
something
like that in her past, even if it was not the same. Even though they had started at different places, they shared a similar future.

“Better than that?” He pointed toward the palace. Sunlight caught the stone in such a way that it nearly glowed.

Jessa looked up toward the palace, a mixture of emotions on her face. Eyes appeared distant, almost haunted, the corners twitching as she blinked against the sunlight. Her mouth was tight, and she sighed, almost a sound of longing.

“Better to be wanted.” Jessa blinked again, and her mouth tightened. “If Brusus has taught me anything, it is to stay out of the clouds. We might not have the same view, but we don’t have as far to fall. Besides, we can see the ground better here.”

She started down the street, winding through the crowd, not waiting to see if Rsiran would follow. He hurried after her, losing her at times as she slipped between people. Finally, he grabbed at her sleeve and held her arm so as not to lose her. Jessa looked back and offered a strange smile but didn’t pull away.

The crowd thinned as they neared the harbor. The storefronts looked more dingy, and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore mixed with the cawing of gulls more than the voices of the crowd. Jessa pulled him toward a side street that ran parallel to the harbor. The scent of food drifted to him long before he saw the market. His mouth immediately started salivating, and his stomach lurched in a rumble.

They stopped at a stand selling smoked meats where Jessa paid a copper benar for an arm length of sausage. At another stand, she bought two apples. She eyed a stand down the street selling flowers but turned away without buying anything.

As they wandered the market, Rsiran froze when he spotted a constable in the distance. There was no mistaking the deep green cloak hanging over his shoulders or the slender sword sheathed at his side. In all of Elaeavn, only the constables were allowed to carry weapons openly. The man moved toward him, and Rsiran suddenly wondered if he’d recognized Rsiran’s clothing. Would he know that it was from the Ilphaesn mines? Or was he simply patrolling? The constable was too far away to know with certainty whether he moved toward them intentionally, but he approached quickly.

Rsiran grabbed Jessa’s arm and turned away from the market, steering her along a side street barely wide enough for them to move side by side and headed in the only direction he knew. They reached the harbor, and he hurried along the shore, glancing back over his shoulder as he went, not relaxing until he was sure the constable did not follow.

Finally, they sat on one of the massive rocks lining the water. Jessa said nothing, only pulling a slender steel blade out of her pocket. Rsiran noted that it was chipped and the tip had broken off somewhere, but it was otherwise sharp. She sliced the meat and pushed a handful over to him. She did the same with the apples, slicing them and tossing the cores toward the water.

“What was that?” she finally asked.

Rsiran took a slow bite, deciding how to answer. He tasted the smoky flavor as he ate, and even though the meat was tough, he enjoyed it. The crashing waves seemed to wash over him as he thought about what to tell Jessa. For all that she had done for him she deserved an answer.

“I—”

“Did you see someone?” She leaned forward, meeting his eyes.

Rsiran swallowed and nodded slowly.

“Was it the same person that hurt you?”

When he hesitated, she pressed.

“Was it, Rsiran? You nearly died!”

He looked down at the grey pants he wore, pants that were the uniform of the Ilphaesn mine, and decided he couldn’t answer the question. Not and keep the other part of him secret, the part that his father had hated most, the reason he had been sent away in the first place.

But did he lie to Jessa? The concern on her face was real, almost twisting her mouth in pain as she waited for his answer. And yet… if he told her the truth, he didn’t know if she would still stand by him. And if not telling her kept her around, then he knew what he would do.

He hated himself as he nodded.

A
fter they ate
, Jessa led him back up into the city. The crowd at midday had not thinned, though he noticed there were fewer carters. Jessa barreled forward, her tiny body somehow crashing through the crowd.

“Where are we going?” he asked her.

She glanced over the shoulder of the arm he had again grabbed onto so that he didn’t lose her. “Got a place to show you.”

He nodded but she had already turned away. “What place? Why?”

She pulled him alongside her so that she could see him without looking back. “Can’t have you spending all day wandering the streets. We’ve got to find you some work.”

Rsiran felt his steps slow and forced himself to keep up with Jessa. She was right. He needed to find work of some sort—a way to be able to repay Brusus for his kindness, to repay Jessa for the food she had bought for him—but the only work available to him would be the kind he didn’t want. He had no formal training and had abandoned his apprenticeship. The only for job someone with his ability was something he refused to become.

Jessa watched his face and slipped her arm out of his grip, pressing her hand into his and squeezing. She said nothing else but did not let go of his hand, dragging him along.

Near the upper boundary of Lower Town, she pulled him onto a side street. The buildings spilled on top of one another, simply crowded together. The stone of some had crumbled, leaving piles of debris in the street. None were painted. Piles of garbage stacked in front of some of the buildings and a lingering scent of sewage hung in the air, as if it no longer drained toward the harbor as it should. A few people slunk along the street, drifting into shadows as they neared. The farther they walked, even the sound of the crowd along the street behind them became muffled and faded.

They passed a small child sitting on the ground outside. He looked sickly, his face thin and pale, and he looked up as they passed. Rsiran noticed eyes that were nearly as pale as his face. It was no part of the city that he had ever visited. For the first time in his life, he wished he had one of the blades he had forged.