The Dark Ability (11 page)

T
he next day was difficult
. Fatigue made focusing on mining more challenging than he had expected, and Rsiran hammered away at the stone with his dull pick without paying attention to what he was doing. Only when he’d cleared a good-sized chunk of lorcith did he realize what was happening. The work, much like it did when he was working the forge, heating the lorcith and hammering it into shape, took hold of him, demanding what it would.

He looked around. None seemed to see the size of his find, and he pushed it toward a pile of loose debris, covering it as well as he could. Thankfully, the boy had been leaving him alone, choosing to mine down a different tunnel, else he might have been seen. For some reason, Rsiran didn’t want him knowing that he was still removing the lorcith from the walls.

The other miners worked in a staccato rhythm. A few worked smaller pieces out from the walls while most simply worked at removing stone, widening the tunnel as they went. The thin man worked in his crew today, but Rsiran didn’t think he’d seen him pull the piece of ore from the rock. The foreman assigned to them stood chewing a length of tobanash, its tangy scent hanging in the otherwise bitter air. Flames weren’t allowed—something about how the dust could ignite, the same reason the special lanterns were used rather than real flames—otherwise most preferred to smoke it rather than chew the rolled leaves.

Sweat coated Rsiran, and his back ached where he had been cut, though not as bad as it should after such an injury. His skin felt tight, pulled and stretched as he worked, and now itched as he looked around. He dared not stand too long or else he would attract more attention. Better to work slowly than not at all.

Turning back to the stone, he was careful to keep his lump of lorcith near his feet as he chipped away at the cave. Before returning, he had Slid home and grabbed the other knife, taking the coins with him as well. He kept the knife tucked into his pants, making certain not to move too quickly so that it didn’t dig into his flesh. The few coins he had in his pocket weighed as heavy. Were anyone to know that he had either, they would be ripped away from him, leaving questions Rsiran was not prepared to answer.

After a while, the whistle sounded. He was careful to let the others move ahead of him. The foreman always made sure to leave the cavern first, never checking for stragglers as he carried the lantern out. Few, other than the most powerfully Sighted, would dare remain in the blackness without the meager light.

Once everyone had moved ahead of him, he dusted the loose debris from the larger lump of lorcith and carried it toward the stairs. After a few steps, he thought he felt motion behind him. This time he was certain he had been the last to leave the cavern. Rather than linger and risk another pick wound to his back, he Slid, taking the lorcith with him.

Stepping from the Slide, trees within the Aisl forest surrounded him, a place his mother used to bring him when he was younger. The air was damp and earthy, and broad green leaves coated the branches. Small bushes attempted to creep from the underbrush, but most were stunted, starved of light with the trees pushing together. A small clearing was nearby, one he had often explored before his father agreed he was old enough to apprentice. He had rarely returned since then, only occasionally when he needed solace. He was not sure why he chose this location for his Slide.

Daring not to linger—there was another roll call in the evening to ensure everyone made it out of the mines—he looked for a place to stash the lorcith. He found a large tree with twisted roots coming from the ground outside the clearing. Burrowing into the ground with his pick, he freed enough space to store the lorcith and quickly covered it with loose leaves and dirt, careful to keep it as hidden as possible. He made a mental note of the tree before taking a step away and Sliding back to the staircase leading out of the tunnel. All told, he had been gone minutes, but he feared it might have been too long.

Only after he returned did he realize that he was now what his father feared he would become—a thief, stealing lorcith from mines owned by the Elvraeth and hording it outside the city.

Now unburdened of his load, Rsiran hurried up the stairs. There was no light, nothing for him to see by, and he worried the foremen would begin to wonder what happened to him. He doubted anyone would worry.

He paused at the top of the stairs, seeing light and a couple dozen miners lingering near the foreman weighing the finds from the day. As he readied to step out and join them, he felt pressure at the base of his neck, cold and sharp. Wetness trickled down his neck.

“Don’t move any farther.”

Rsiran recognized the voice. It belonged to the same person who had attacked him twice already. How had this person managed to stay behind him on the stairs and how did they know that he had collected a large quantity of lorcith again?

“Where is it?” the voice hissed.

“Where is what?” Rsiran already prepared to Slide. There was no mistaking the threat in this person’s voice, no way to mistake the intended use of the pick stuck into the base of his neck. Any more pressure, and he would be dead.

“The ore,” the voice hissed. “Where is the ore?”

Rsiran shifted forward and felt the pressure on the back of his neck push harder. Somehow, he stood at the edge of the stairs, right before the ground opened up, but no one saw him standing there. As he moved, something shifted on his back, and he remembered the slender knife tucked into his pants.

“I don’t have it.”

“Where did you leave it?” The blade pressed harder.

Rsiran nearly screamed but suspected that if he called out, his attacker would only finish him off more quickly.

“Not here. Down in the mine,” he said, hoping to buy some time.

“There is nothing but dirt and stone down in the mine. Where is the ore you harvested?”

His mind raced. Somehow this person knew he had a large find today and also knew that he no longer had it with him. Had they seen him Slide? At least he didn’t feel completely helpless. He could move, Slide himself to safety, even if only forward a step…

Rsiran had never tried such a short Slide. Even a small step would be useful, likely tiring, but would at least get him up into the open where the other miners would see him.

Would his attacker dare follow him?

“I don’t have it,” Rsiran said angrily.

Then he Slid forward two steps.

Such movement was like a flicker. One moment he was on the steps, the pick jabbed into his neck, the next moment he was two steps out into the openness of the cavern, a pair of miners standing nearby. One looked up and frowned, surprised to see him, but shrugged and turned back to the line in front of the foreman.

Rsiran sagged, after Sliding to the Aisl forest and back, he felt weakened by even that short Slide. With his fatigue, he might not even have been able to manage a more significant Slide. He shuffled toward the table where the foreman sat, pulled out a few pieces of smaller lorcith, and set them on the table.

The foreman glanced at them and then looked up at Rsiran, his eyes widening. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

The words took a moment to register, and then Rsiran reached behind his head and felt his neck. There was a long slice deep into the flesh of his neck, nearly as deep as had been in his back. Blood stained his hand as he pulled it away.

“Stones fell,” he muttered, knowing the foreman wouldn’t ask too many questions unless Rsiran said anything. Falling stones frequently injured men, and though Rsiran had never seen anything more than minor injuries, supposedly a few had even died.

The foreman nodded. “If you need bandaging…”

Rsiran nodded. Nothing until morning. “I’m fine.” He wobbled slightly on his feet.

The foreman looked back down to his log and nodded, making a few notes. He waved Rsiran on and didn’t look back up.

Rsiran took a weak step and nearly stumbled, catching himself by leaning on the wall of the cavern. Even without looking, he knew this was worse than the injury to his back.

He staggered down the tunnel toward the sleeping cavern, dragging his hand along the wall as he walked. After taking a few steps, he dared not walk any further. His face felt hot and flushed, his legs weak and unsteady. His mind swam remembering what the healer had said about the other injury.

Poisoned.

Not bothering to look, he Slid. What other choice did he have it he wanted to survive? Everything blurred around him, and he staggered forward rather than stepping, and feared he had gone too far.

W
hen he opened his eyes
, he was in the healer’s home, lying on the floor near the fireplace. His pick and small hammer fell to the floor with a clatter. There were no other sounds, only the soft crackling of flames. He tried to cry out but nothing more than a moan made it through his lips.

He lay motionless for long moments, fearing that the healer wasn’t home. Finally someone moved behind him.

“Great Watcher!” the healer said. As she reached him, she ran her hands along his neck and back, probing the wound. “Again?”

Rsiran could only nod weakly.

“The poison set quickly this time,” she murmured. “I’ll need to try…”

Rsiran didn’t hear what else she said; everything suddenly sounded muffled. Pain seared across his back as her hands ran over him. His head throbbed, and the lights swirled with bright colors. Muted and muffled voices spoke around him, and more than once, he thought there was someone else in the room with the healer. Slowly his head began to clear, and he could make out what she said.

“Some of it remains inside. Can only wash the wound now.”

Something wet and icy hot touched his neck. Rsiran didn’t know if it was blood or some healing concoction. It poured over him for what seemed an eternity and then subsided. Della muttered something else, but he didn’t understand what it was. Then he felt a steady stabbing along his neck.

“Hold still!” she commanded. “Got to stitch this one. No other way to hold the flesh together, not as damaged as it was. Won’t heal on its own any other way. Might not heal as it is, but at least this gives it a chance. There will be some scarring…can’t help that anymore. Skin around it might be different too. Not sure if there will be other complications. Have to wait and see on that.”

She prattled on as she worked. Rsiran felt each jab of the needle as it went through his skin and the steady pulling of the thread as she pulled it taut. After a while the sense faded and he could tell she had stopped.

“Not at all pleased with this one. Not at all. Messy work and looks like it was done by those without any talent, but it will have to do. At least you’ll survive.”

She patted him on the head. Her hand was cool and moist. Rsiran managed to blink open his eyes. He was lying on a cot near the fire. Somehow she had managed to lift him to the cot and had worked on his neck.

“Done?” The word croaked out of him. He licked his lips and found his tongue and mouth had gone completely dry and tasted of blood, as if he had bit himself somewhere along the line.

Della tipped a cup to his lips, and cool liquid ran into his mouth. He tasted a bitter flavor mixed with honey and rinsed his mouth as he swallowed.

“That’s the first thing you think to ask?”

He pulled himself up. His head felt heavy and wobbly. Pain still pierced his neck, but better than before. “I didn’t want to move too soon,” he said, trying to explain.

She looked at him with her deep green eyes. Her dark hair was twisted atop her head, and a long stick stuck through it seemed to hold it in place. Wrinkles on her face seemed to have deepened since he last saw her. A sheen of sweat coated her face. “Think you’ll Slide away again?”

Rsiran blinked once and then nodded. “I can’t be gone too long.” All he could think of was returning to the mines. If he didn’t, his absence would be discovered, his father would learn, and his apprenticeship—the ability to work the forge—would be taken from him.

“Who attacked you? Same weapon, I think,” she said, motioning toward his back, “but a little different poison. More refined. Next time might kill you before you get a chance to jump here.”

Next time. Rsiran didn’t think he could handle a next time. “I don’t know who attacked me. I thought I was clear, but they found me anyway.”

“Did you fight back?”

Rsiran tried to shrug but the movement was too painful, causing a flaring pain to shoot up his neck. “Tried. Not much I can do with a weapon pressed against my skull.”

“You can Slide.”

“I can Slide. Not fast enough.”

She frowned, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening. “Only because you refuse to practice. You think they hesitate to use their abilities on you? This gift of yours—and make no mistake that it
is
a gift, young man—does not make you into something you are not. You
choose
how you use it, choose whether to be like the men assigned to the mines…”

He arched an eyebrow at the comment but said nothing.

“Or whether you will find a way to honor the Great Watcher for his gift.”

The words washed over him. He didn’t know what to say.

“And in spite of how you’ve been made to feel about your ability, still you use it. Especially when needed. Only you do not practice to gain strength. Each Slide weakens you?”

“How do you know?” he whispered.

“You think all abilities are so different? The Great Watcher grants us our gifts and expects us to use them. Mastering them takes strength. Until then, we are weak.”

Rsiran swallowed. His mouth and lips were still dry. “The weakness will get better?”

“Until you barely notice it,” she said softly. She leaned back and watched him. “Why don’t you give them what they want? Why let them attack you at all?”

Rsiran considered the question and was unsure of the answer. Why had he hesitated to give his attacker the lorcith? He had not the first time, choosing his safety over the ore. When he refused the second time, he had been injured. This time had been the worst, nearly killing him. But even if he had the lorcith, would he have given it to his attacker?

“I don’t know.”

“And yet you will return.”

“It’s what my father requires. If I don’t, I’ll never be a smith.”

She smiled sadly. “Your father demands that you suppress another part of your bloodline, young smith.”

He looked up. Could she know?

Della nodded, as if Reading him. With as weak as he felt, maybe she had. “The oldest smith families can all sense the lorcith, can all
hear
it. Over time, most have chosen to ignore the call, and in doing so, they ignore who they are, who they should be. That talent, another from the Great Watcher but no less important, has been destroyed over time almost as much as your other gift.”

He grunted. “And I am cursed with both.”

“Cursed?” she said sharply. “Gifted. Blessed. You should not turn away from anything the Great Watcher gives. Can you turn away from your hands? Ignore the color of your hair or eyes?” She shook her head. “Your abilities are much the same. There is nothing shameful about you, only how you behave.”

Rsiran was taken aback. He pushed forward on the cot and started to stand but found that his legs did not want to support him yet. “How do you know so much about all of these abilities?”

Della smiled. “I have lived many years. As a healer, I am privy to much that others are not. I also see how destructive people are to themselves, especially when they try to deny an aspect of who they are. As you attempt to do. Eventually, they harm themselves as much as others. There are injuries even a healer cannot mend.”

“What else other than a smith can I be?”

“Why must it be one or the other? Why can it not be both?”

“My father…”

“Ignores a part of himself as much as you have, only he is far enough along, recovery is unlikely. There is still a chance for you.”

Rsiran thought about his father, thought about the way he spoke of controlling the lorcith, ignoring the call of the ore, and wondered if that was the reason for his anger, the reason he turned so heavily to the ale.

“He won’t accept me if I continue Sliding.”

“Then he is the wrong mentor for you.”

Rsiran blinked. “There are no smiths in Elaeavn who would accept someone interested in listening to lorcith. At least not that I’ve met. Every time I let the lorcith guide me, I make a weapon. Knives or sword blades. Such things have been forbidden by the guild.”

Della nodded as he spoke. “Then there are no master smiths in Elaeavn who could mentor you.”

It dawned on him slowly what she implied. “You mean I should seek apprenticeship
outside
Elaeavn?” He wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Why learn from one who would suppress who you are? Suppresses all the abilities that you possess rather than attempt to draw them out? That would be like me ignoring my gift at healing and simply letting you die. To do so is to deny the Great Watcher himself.”

“I…” He’d never before considered leaving Elaeavn. Few ever
chose
to leave the city.

She shook her head. “You can choose where you learn, young smith. Especially you. Your ability to Slide can take you as far as you can
think
. Why restrict your education to those who have forsaken so much of what made them great?”

She smiled, and the wrinkles in her forehead deepened, making her look ancient. Rsiran suddenly wondered how old Della was and how she had learned so much about things that few spoke freely of.

“You have not decided,” she saw, reading his face. “For now, that is probably fine. You still have time. Soon you might find that you must make a choice—suppress who you are and be who you think you should be or become the person the Great Watcher intended you to become. The choice is not easy, not in Elaeavn as it exists today, but vital to you.” She watched him another moment. “Returning to Ilphaesn puts you at great risk. Whoever has attacked you knows much about a particular poison. I don’t know why there would be anyone in Ilphaesn with that knowledge, but I also don’t think you will survive another attack. Consider, at least, remaining in Elaeavn while you decide. There is safety here.”

“They will know if I do not return. My father will know.”

Della sighed. “They will know. And so will whoever attacked you. Have you considered why you have been targeted? Could there be another reason?”

“Most men must collect enough lorcith to purchase their freedom. I’ve been lucky and found large lumps of ore.”

That wasn’t the only reason, he knew, but the only one that made sense to him.

“Not lucky. You have listened for the lorcith. Quite a difference. The others depend on luck to find even a small nugget. You can listen for the lorcith and target your efforts. You could have a large find each day if you so wanted.” She sighed again. “You may not believe this, but you have people who care about you—even if you do not care for yourself.”

“I have no one,” he muttered.

“No one?” Della repeated. “No one should have let you die on the street then. No one should not have brought you to my home to seek healing. No one should not have returned to check on you, only to find that you had already departed.” She shook her head. “You are right. You have no one.”

Rsiran did not know what to say and so sat silent, watching the fire. Della let the silence between them linger. He felt her eyes upon him, watching him, waiting. He suspected she would not speak first.

“What should I do?” He looked away from the flames and met her eyes.

She frowned, narrowing her deep green eyes. “Do you think you are the first person who felt they didn’t fit within the confines of Elaeavn? Sometimes you have to make your own place, even if it is not the place you thought it would be.”

Rsiran stood for another moment, but Della said nothing more. She stood and started organizing the small bottles on a nearby shelf, her back turned to him. He considered Sliding but didn’t think he had the strength to return. At least that was what he told himself.

He set the coins in his pocket on the cot before he left.

The door to Della’s home closed with a soft jingle as he stepped into the street.