The Dark Ability (27 page)

“It’s mine. You stole it.”

“Stole? How can I steal what was already mine?”

“Yours?” Rsiran readied himself for what he needed to do, readied himself to Slide to Jessa, hoping that it worked.

“With lorcith taken from the mines of Ilphaesn. The mines are owned by the family.”

“The sword is mine,” Rsiran repeated.

He felt anger growing inside him. Josun wanted to use them. Planned on killing Jessa. And would leave Rsiran with the blame. What did it matter what else he did now? If he could not save Jessa, then everything else meant nothing.

“I think it adds nicely to my collection.”

Rage swelled through Rsiran. The lorcith blade thrummed against his awareness, pulling at him. In response, he
pulled
back.

He didn’t know who was more surprised when the sword flew toward him. Rsiran caught it by the hilt.

Josun recovered quickly. “Interesting. An ability I have not witnessed. Could it be new? Had we more time, I would try to study you, but as you are about to be taken into custody…”

The Elvraeth tilted his head, as if listening. A moment later, a soft pounding came from the outer chamber. The guards—tchalit he called them—had arrived.

Rsiran had to act now.

He Slid toward Josun, sword outstretched, his other hand reaching toward Jessa. The Slide happened smoothly, none of the grating he felt when he had Slid Jessa into the room. The only thing he felt was fatigue.

Josun seemed to have anticipated his move and Slid away, emerging near the door, still holding Jessa. “Once they reach this room, you will find it much more difficult to Slide.”

Rsiran’s heart fluttered. Josun was right. He wasn’t skilled enough at Sliding to save Jessa that way. He needed something else.

The lorcith thrummed against him, almost calling to him. Could he push as he had pulled the sword? Was that what happened with Haern?

Jessa nearly fell from Josun’s grip, and he pressed the knife deeper. Rsiran had to try.

Feeling one of the knives tucked into his pocket, he focused on the blade, focused on the lorcith. All he needed was a moment. Long enough to startle Josun so that he could rescue Jessa and attempt to get away. The knife seemed to answer, as if understanding.

And then he pushed on it.

The blade tore through his pants and whistled through the air. When Josun saw the knife coming at him it was too late. Though he tried to Slide away, he failed. The knife sank into his thigh. Blood bloomed around the blade.

He dropped Jessa to grab at the dagger.

The door slammed open. Rsiran recognized the man who entered, the thin man from the mines, the scar on his head drawing Rsiran’s eyes.

Why would he be here? And with Josun…

There was no time for answers, not if he wanted to save Jessa.

Sliding to her, he emerged only long enough to snatch her hand. Then he Slid.

Rsiran focused on a distant sense, using the awareness of lorcith outside of the palace as an anchor, the same as he had done when Sliding to the sword in the first place. He didn’t know what it was he felt, only that the awareness was there, distant and faint, but enough to hold onto, to pull himself along as he Slid.

Something held onto him, as if he were pushing out through an opening too small to fit. He nearly screamed at the pressure. He held tightly to Jessa, afraid to let go, not certain what would happen to her if he lost his grip. Would she be lost in some place between?

The effort was intense, more than he had ever exerted in a single Slide.

For a moment, he feared he could not do it, that he would be stuck within, left to whatever fate Josun intended, Jessa bleeding from the knife wound to her side.

The thought of watching her die gave him strength.

He pressed into the Slide with every ounce of energy he could muster, pushing with every bit of anger and rage, of frustration at what his father had done to him, every bit of hope and friendship and—possibly—love that he felt from Jessa.

He would not let Haern’s vision come true. He would not fail her.

And then something popped.

Rsiran emerged, Jessa’s hand held tightly.

Fatigue overwhelmed him, and he stumbled. His vision was dark, blackened by the effort that his Slide had taken. He smelled something smoky and familiar. The muffled sound of voices came as if from a great distance. Jessa’s hand cradled his.

He went down. Blackness overcame him.

He did not know if the effort of the Slide had been too much, if he had pushed too hard.

Rsiran didn’t care. As long as he saved Jessa, it didn’t matter.

W
hen
he finally came back around, Haern looked down at him. His scar seemed to gleam.

“Haern?”

Haern leaned over him. His face was tight and clean, and his breath smelled of tobanash. His blue shirt was buttoned to the collar and was tucked into brown pants made of some loose fitting material. Rsiran searched quickly for a weapon, instinctively sensing for lorcith. He felt a collection of his knives somewhere nearby and the sword somewhere else, but nothing on Haern.

Now completely awake, he looked around. He lay on a small mat on the ground in Della’s main room. A fire burned in the hearth nearby. Incense gave off a spicy scent and helped clear his head. Light filtered through windows at the front of the house, and shifting shadows played across the walls.

The sudden fear he felt at seeing Haern cleared his mind completely. Glancing around, he saw a foldout cot set near the fireplace. Jessa’s dark hair splayed off the side. At first he wasn’t certain she still lived, but her chest rose and fell steadily. He heaved a sigh of relief and sagged back onto the cot.

“You ignored my advice,” Haern said.

Rsiran made a point of looking at him. “You tried to kill me.” Had he more energy, the anger he felt at seeing Haern would simmer over into his words.

Surprisingly, Haern smiled. “Did I?”

“Didn’t you?”

Rsiran remembered the experience clearly, remembered the way the knife slashed toward him, almost as if in slow motion, his awareness of the lorcith in the blade he forged surging, the sudden urge to
push
the knife away from him… and the way the knife suddenly flung away.

Haern only shrugged. “I seem to have a different recollection. I could See only glimpses of you, but what I saw gave me enough to know which way you needed to be pushed.” He said the last with a smile.

“So you weren’t trying to kill me?” Rsiran asked, incredulous. The malice on Haern’s face had seemed so real.

“Your dying would have shifted my vision for Jessa,” he said unapologetically. “She would have failed to enter the palace and return to help Brusus. The possibility of her success was minimal without help.” Haern narrowed eyes that suddenly flared a deep green. “I could not See what would happen when she returned to Brusus. Perhaps Brusus would have failed or she would have helped him succeed. Either way, they would have been farther along whatever pathway the Elvraeth had set them upon. I Saw nothing but darkness in that direction.”

Rsiran was not sure he followed what Haern was saying. “You wanted me to try to break into the palace on my own? That’s why you tried to kill me?”

Haern smiled. “Much like with Josun, I See very little of you, Rsiran. Something of your ability masks you. But I Saw that without any prompting, you might not learn of your other talent, the one I Saw to be essential to your success.” He watched Rsiran’s face. “On your own, you would have been captured. Possibly killed as well. And then Brusus and Jessa would have been left alone for a while. I suspect eventually Josun would have turned his attention back to Brusus.” He frowned. “There is something about Brusus that he wants.”

“You knew Jessa would not stay behind. You knew she would force me to include her.”

Rsiran wondered how clear Haern’s visions were. How much did he know about what would happen? Did they have any choice in what they did?

“I knew you needed to try to leave her behind. Beyond that…” He shrugged. “I could not See. Only,” he paused and looked from Rsiran to Jessa, “that it was one of the few paths where the possibility of success existed.”

Rsiran shook his head and closed his eyes. “I still don’t understand.”

“In time you will.”

“Is Jessa…”

“She will be fine. The knife penetrated deeply, but the wound was not tainted. Della healed her. Rest is all she needs now.”

Rsiran rolled over to look at her again. From where he lay on the floor, all he could see clearly was her hair and the outline of her body in the flickering light of the fire. The near paralyzing fear he had felt at the possibility of losing her had surprised him. Had Josun counted on that?

“What of Josun?” Rsiran asked.

A different voice answered. “About that.”

Rsiran turned. Brusus stood in the doorway, a large binding wrapped around his shirtless torso. Blood stained the bandages. His face was haggard and drawn. Lines wrinkled his forehead that had not been there before. Streaks of thicker white shot through his otherwise dark hair. He held the sword Rsiran had taken back from Josun.

He leaned against the doorway and looked relaxed, but the strain on his face told Rsiran all he needed to know about Brusus’s strength.

“You were foolish to attempt what you did,” Brusus said.

Rsiran nodded. Only a complete fool would try to break into the palace. “I didn’t think I had any other choice.”

Brusus snorted. “Haven’t I shown you anything? There is always another choice.” He took a deep breath and started to sigh, but a fit of coughing interrupted him. After it passed, he shook his head. “Took nearly dying for me to see what Josun wanted. Had I only trusted Haern, I might have known sooner.”

“Known what?” Rsiran asked.

“I told you there were layers to him,” Brusus said. “To Josun, partly this was a game. A game he played where you were one of the pieces. Where
I
was one of the pieces.” He shook his head. “As far as Josun is concerned, the Elvraeth struggle for position, for power. Most of his life has been spent trying to position himself higher within the family.”

Rsiran frowned and opened his mouth to comment on Brusus’s birth, but held back the comment when Brusus shot him a look. “He’s not the only one, Brusus,” Rsiran said, thinking of the man from the mines. Others were involved in Josun’s rebellion. And they knew of him, and what he could do. They would come for him. “There are others in this rebellion.”

“Perhaps,” Brusus said. “But you—and I—were but a piece,” Brusus said. “A distraction. Perhaps bait. All intended as part of his larger plan.”

Rsiran considered arguing with Brusus, that Josun hadn’t known of Rsiran until he had gone to the warehouse. But was that even true? If Josun spoke in layers, what prevented even that from being the truth? And saying something would only risk revealing what he knew of Brusus, and he wasn’t sure Brusus wanted the rest of the group to know that secret.

“He wanted to blame me for what he planned. He knew I could Slide.”

Haern and Brusus looked at each other. Brusus had a worried look on his face.

“Did he say what he planned?” Brusus asked.

Rsiran shook his head. He licked dry lips, wishing for water. “He wanted me to poison members of the council. I thought he wanted power, but that wasn’t all.”

Brusus closed his eyes for a moment. “His demonstration. Power for him, but revenge might be a more accurate term. His sister was exiled. I only learned about it after…” Brusus sighed. “I’ve been more a fool than I realized.”

Exiled—Forgotten—just like Brusus’s mother.

“Brusus,” Rsiran started, fearing what he needed to say next. “He will come after us again. The Elvraeth will come for us.”

“No. He will not.
They
will not.”

Rsiran turned back. “What do you mean?”

It was Haern who answered. “From what I can See, Josun is dead.”

“Dead?” The knife had only been a distraction, a way to get Jessa away from him. And it had only been his leg.

“I can tell from your face that you didn’t know,” Brusus said.

“He was alive when we… I… Slid us away.”

“And it was Josun who hurt Jessa?” Haern asked. He made no effort to hide the heat in his voice.

Rsiran nodded. “I pushed one of the knives at him. Hit his leg.”

Brusus looked down at Rsiran’s pants. “Explains how your pants were damaged. Della fretted over a possible injury, fearing poisoning, especially with that...”

Rsiran didn’t hear the rest, checking his pocket. A long slice had been torn in his pants where the knife had been pushed out through the fabric. When he brought his hand back it was coated in a white powder. The whistle dust Josun had given him. Had the knife been stained with it?

He wiped it on his pants, afraid of what it might do to him.

“You know what that is?” Brusus asked.

Rsiran nodded. “I was to have mixed it into the council’s drinks, but that wasn’t what he really wanted to do with it.”

Brusus and Haern shared another knowing look. “Painful. Possibly fatal,” Haern suggested.

“Whistle dust is a brutal poison and a horrible way to die.” Della came out from behind Brusus and pressed a hand on his dressings before nodding to herself. She appeared even older than the last time, weak and frail.

Rsiran hated that he had contributed to her change.

“Don’t you go fretting about me, young man,” she said. “Without you, I think this one might have gotten in deeper than what even he could manage.” Della pointed to Brusus.

Not for the first time, Della seemed to have Read his thoughts.

“Whistle dust in liquid is caustic,” she went on. “Throat damage, vomiting, general achiness. A slow death. In the bloodstream, the effect is different. Painful burning. Excessive bleeding. Immediate death.”

Rsiran rubbed his hand on his pants again, not wanting to be touching the whistle dust any longer than he needed to. “His sister was really exiled?” he asked.

Brusus frowned. “Several months ago. I haven’t managed to learn why.”

“Does it matter?” Della asked him. “Now that he’s gone, does any of it matter?”

Brusus looked over to her with a strange expression on his face.

Haern watched him, eyes flaring green, and then shook his head once. “Let it go, Brusus. All I See is darkness.”

Once, Rsiran wouldn’t have been able to believe the Elvraeth exiled their own family. But had his father done anything so different? Hadn’t he exiled Rsiran from his family?

The only difference was that he didn’t want revenge.

“But if one of the Elvraeth is dead?” Rsiran had worried about getting caught with the sword. Was it known that he Slid to the palace and killed Josun? And what of the rest of the rebellion? If the thin man from the mine had been involved, there was more to it than even Brusus realized.

But maybe with Josun dying, it didn’t matter.

“I haven’t heard anything from the palace,” Brusus said.

“And you would have?” Rsiran asked, hope seeping into his voice.

“Yes.”

Rsiran stared up at the ceiling. The tchalit hadn’t seen him. And if Josun were dead, maybe the thin man wouldn’t come after him. Doing so would only reveal what Josun intended. Maybe they really
were
safe.

“You don’t understand the Elvraeth, Rsiran.” Della set her hand on his shoulder. “This would not be the first time something like this happened. This might have gone deeper than most, but…” She closed her eyes, and took a few short breaths. “Be reassured Brusus has heard nothing.”

Brusus watched Della and sighed deeply. Then he pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked out of Della’s house.

Haern watched him leave and finally shrugged, pushing himself up to follow Brusus.

“Thank you, Rsiran,” Della said when they were gone.

He shook his head. “For what?”

She met his eyes. “For simply being. Without you, I fear what would have happened to Brusus. What still might happen if he gets the opportunity. It eats at him what could have been, if not for something he had no control over. We must keep him safe from himself. And his past.”

As she tottered past, she squeezed his shoulder. Warmth spread out from where she touched him. Then she left, disappearing into the back room.

Rsiran managed to stand. He felt weak but better than he expected. Stranger too. Everyone knew about his abilities now. There was no hiding what he was, what he could do. And no one seemed upset that he could Slide or that he listened to the call of the lorcith.

He walked over to Jessa and crouched next to her cot, resting with his hand twined in hers, feeling the warmth of the fire spread over him.