The Dark Ability (5 page)

T
he journey
to Ilphaesn took the better part of three days. Rsiran could have Slid in a heartbeat. The only advantage of leaving the city, as far as Rsiran could tell, was that he didn’t have to fear Brusus demanding more knives from him. During his last night at the tavern, Brusus had alluded to needing more knives. At least away from the city, he didn’t have to fear what would happen if he didn’t make them for him.

The white peak of the rocky mountain rose high overhead, contrasting with the overcast sky. A winding trail led to a darkened cavern mouth. The bitter scent of lorcith hung on the air, so thick Rsiran could taste it. Only when they reached the mouth of the mines did the man leading them speak.

“Your entire sentence will be served here,” he said. His voice was thin and high, as if rarely used. “Davin will show you where you will sleep.” He nodded toward a man emerging from the wide mouth of a cave on the side of the mountain. “You earn one percent of all that is mined. No more than that.” He grunted. “Work harder, and your time here is shorter. Work slower…” He shrugged. “Food will be brought in twice a day and members of the mining guild will be present, but unseen.”

“Didn’t say anything about luck,” one of the convicted men muttered.

“There is always an element of luck. The Great Watcher gives what he gives. Lately, he hasn’t given all that much,” the other guard said, waiting until Davin neared to turn and started back toward the village.

Davin looked at them carefully. His eyes widened when he saw Rsiran wore no bindings on his wrists. “What is this?”

Rsiran glanced at the other men. “My father sent me here to work,” he answered softly.

One of the convicted men from Elaeavn snickered. He was thin, his eyes a pale watery green, and his hair shorn close, revealing a long scar along his scalp that he seemed to wear with pride.

Davin frowned. “Neran sent word,” he said. “Didn’t think he was serious that he was sending his apprentice to work in the mines. Didn’t know you were his son too. Did he tell you how much you needed to earn?”

Rsiran shook his head, confused.

“Gryn told you one percent is earned,” Davin said, nodding toward the man walking back toward the village.

Rsiran stared ahead. His father had said nothing about how long he would need to serve, saying only that he needed to learn to control the lorcith. Perhaps when he managed that he could return.

The thin man snickered again.

Davin shot him a look. He had eyes of a medium green and an intense stare that dared the other man to challenge him. “Then you’ll work until we hear from him. Don’t expect special treatment. Neran was clear about that. You’ll work the same as the others. Share the same sleeping quarters. Eat the same food. The mines are meant to be punishment.”

Rsiran only nodded.

T
he sleeping quarters
turned out to be a large hollowed out section within the mountain. The stone along the walls was rough and damp, and the air smelled heavily of the bitter lorcith mined deeper below. A single lantern glowed with a soft orange light somewhere in the cavern, but Rsiran could not see where it was. Shadows shifted around the edges of the cavern, strange and twisting, and—not for the first time since leaving Elaeavn—an uncomfortable feeling worked through him.

They were given a pair of thin blankets to sleep upon and a battered metal bowl and cup. Other blankets were scattered across the floor of the cavern, clustered most heavily near the single light, almost overlapping. Rsiran took his blanket and set it down away from many others, unwilling to sleep so close to men he had not met. He set his bowl and cup next to him.

He looked around, taking a quick count of the people. Nearly one hundred men moved around the cavern. Supper had recently been served, and most still ate, sitting atop their blankets. His stomach grumbled at the sight of the bread and the bowls of stew, but he tried to ignore the sensation. They had not been fed well while traveling, mostly jerky and stale rolls. The last good meal he had eaten had been the breakfast with Alyse. Strange that he should have a fond memory of her.

The floor was dry and dusty as he unrolled one of the blankets. He had not brought anything with him other than his clothes. His father had made it quite clear that was not allowed. In the darkness, surrounded by others he knew to be criminals and thieves, it was the lorcith-forged knife he missed the most.

The walls of the cavern seemed to press in on him, squeezing him, and he closed his eyes to distract from looking at his surroundings, trying to imagine open skies and water stretching as far as he could see. He could not shut out the sounds.

The other men who had come with him made their way toward the lantern. Rsiran heard them greeted as if recognized by others already there. A few men laughed.

“Finally got caught?”

“Damn Elvraeth,” someone said.

Rsiran opened his eyes and turned cautiously toward the lantern. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone speaking of the Elvraeth with such disgust.

The thin man hunkered near the lantern, a circle of others surrounding him, light reflecting strangely from his scar. He leaned toward the others as he spoke.

“What did you do?” someone asked.

The thin man shrugged. “Got caught outside town with an Asador merchant trying to sell silks.”

“That’s not a crime.”

The thin man laughed. “It is if they aren’t yours!”

Everyone around him laughed. One even clapped him on the shoulder.

“Any word on the—”

The thin man raised a hand, cutting the other off. He looked around, casting his gaze around the cavern, settling briefly on Rsiran before turning back to the others. “You think they don’t have ears, even here?”

“Not in here,” another said. “They want nothing from here.”

“’Cept the ore.”

“Yeah, that. I hear it’s coming slowly.”

One of the men grunted. “That’s what we’ve been told to do.”

“We’re still moving it, only not to the city,” one of the men said.

“Why are you here?”

Rsiran jerked around at the sound. The voice was soft and thin. A face that looked no older than ten peered at him from a half dozen paces away, squatted down atop a blanket. Dark hair was long and lanky, pushed back behind his ears.

“Does it matter?” Rsiran asked. He tried listening, feeling a growing unease about what the other men had been talking about. The way the men spoke sounded nothing like anyone he’d ever met in Elaeavn. In some ways, they sounded more like Brusus and his friends.

Rsiran’s heart skipped. What if Brusus had connections to the men in the mines?

He needed to keep away from them, and not let anyone learn who he was. Already, he might have said too much, revealing the fact that his father had sent him to Ilphaesn.

The boy laughed softly as he crept closer, crawling on hands and feet and looking animal-like as he did. “Does it matter?” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Always matters. To them, at least,” he said, motioning toward the men around the lantern. “Surprised you didn’t want to be closer to the light.”

Rsiran shook his head. “Too many people there,” he said. Too much risk, he didn’t say.

The boy smiled with a flash of pale teeth. “That’s why they like it. The longer you’re here, the more you’ll want to be around others.”

“How long have you been here?”

The boy tilted his head as if trying to remember. “Nearly a year.”

Rsiran struggled to keep the surprise off his face. From what he understood, most sentences were for six months, rarely longer. “Why aren’t you near the light then?” He avoided the question he wanted to ask.

The boy smiled again. “Some of us like the dark,” he answered and scurried off toward the back wall. Soon he was a shadow in the darkness, watching Rsiran intently, his eyes the only part of him clearly visible.

Rsiran lay down on his blanket and closed his eyes. He struggled to ignore the sounds around him, the conspiratorial voices of those near the light now speaking in quieter tones, the occasional cough, and a steady tapping from deeper in the mines he did not understand. Sleep came slowly the first night.

T
he following day
he awoke with his back throbbing as a loud gonging startled him from a restless sleep filled with dreams that he vaguely remembered. The light in the cavern had not changed; the same lantern glowing a soft orange making morning look no different than night. The only difference was the fact that everyone had moved.

At some point, a large pot had been set near the lantern. A line of miners took their cups and scooped food from the pot before retaking their places and eating in silence. No one really spoke.

Rsiran stood and carefully stretched his legs. He took the battered cup and bowl he had been given and wound his way toward the line, waiting patiently for his turn at the pot. The boy he had seen the night before stood a few paces in front of him, small and thin. Fresh wounds crisscrossed his arms, blood dried and caked onto them. He looked around nervously, and Rsiran realized he had several scars on his face as well. None of the others in line had such injuries. What had happened to this boy?

At the pot, he scooped without looking, his hand slipping into a warm slop. The smell was unrecognizable, certainly not the sweet smell of bread or the tasty bite of sausage that he suspected Alyse made again this morning. He took his bowl and looked around for water but saw none. Licking already dried lips, he made his way back toward his blanket and took his seat to eat in silence.

A few of the men spoke as they ate. Rsiran recognized the soft cackle of the thin man who had traveled to Ilphaesn with him and looked over as he took his first spoonful of tasteless mush. The man sat amid five others, each dressed in the same dark grey clothes, the others content to eat silently. He laughed and gestured as he spoke, having far too good a time for the assignment. Every so often, the man’s eyes wandered to their guards. Once he’d caught Rsiran looking, his hard eyes fixing Rsiran with an intensity that reminded him of the way Brusus had watched him, and he turned away quickly.

He finished his meal and looked around for some way to rinse out his bowl but did not see anything. Everyone else appeared to simply wipe the bowl clean with their sleeves. Grimacing, Rsiran copied them, hating that he was forced to live this way. A line began forming near the mouth of the sleeping cavern, and he stood and made his way to stand with the others. He focused his attention out of the cavern, staring into the darkness. Behind him came the occasional cackle from the thin man.

Once everyone had lined up, they were marched out of the cavern and into a wide tunnel that veered steadily down. An occasional orange lantern lit the tunnel. They gave off weak light, leaving everything in shadows that grew long and deep before the glow of the next lantern began to appear.

Somewhere ahead of him, someone stumbled, grunting as they did, and then uttered a moan of pain. The group did not stop, simply veering around the downed man. Rsiran looked down as they neared but could not make out anything other than the dark outline of the fallen.

The farther they walked, the stronger the bitter smell of the lorcith became. The air was heavy and stale, and a soft, fluttering, cool breeze drifted through the tunnel. Something else as well, a sensation that he felt at first was imagined. There seemed to be something pulling on him, as if dragging him forward. Probably the grade of the slope, he decided. He didn’t know how long they walked before they finally reached an area where the ground leveled off.

The group stopped and divided into smaller groups. Each was directed to grab a small hammer and a pick out of a long bin, and he shuffled forward, taking the tools when it was his turn. They were well used, the point of the pick blunted. The wooden handles were worn smooth.

Rsiran recognized one of the foremen as a man he had seen in the village at the base of Ilphaesn the day before. He had ragged hair and a thin beard—something never seen in Elaeavn—and hard angry eyes flickered at everyone around him. His eyes reminded Rsiran too well of his father, especially how he became when he was drinking. Rsiran knew immediately to stay away from this man.

“Anything not returned at the end of the day is taken from your profits,” the foreman said in such a way that told Rsiran he said the same thing every day.

How often did tools disappear? Normally such a thing would seem unlikely, but he suspected there were some among the workers who would take any opportunity at freedom, especially if the price they must repay was high enough. And how would they even know? There was no way out of the mines. As soon as they’d entered, a massive gate set into the stone around the mines had been locked. Only the guards could come or go. Would they really know if he Slid away?

Rsiran was sorted with the rest and directed down a smaller tunnel. Stairs were cut into the mine here, a single lantern marking the change to the ground, as the tunnel narrowed drastically. The steps were steep, and he pushed out his hands to keep his balance, careful not to bang his tools against the wall.

As he went down into the darkness, the air began to warm. The breeze that he’d felt while in the upper tunnel faded until it completely disappeared. Another lantern was set into the wall, giving enough light for him to see there were countless more stairs ahead of him. He marveled at the work that it must have taken to build these tunnels, to form each stair, before realizing it all came from forced labor. Men like him had created these tunnels over the years.

Or not like him. The ruling Elvraeth family had sent everyone else as punishment. He served because of his father.

The farther they descended, he began wondering how they would get any lorcith back up the stairs once it was mined. Would they have to climb with the ore strapped to their backs? From his time working in the smith, he knew that lump ore was heavy. He did not look forward to such a climb. Or was it collected in another way?

Unless he wouldn’t be getting any lorcith out. Hadn’t he overheard that the supply of the ore had slowed? Strange, considering Rsiran felt nothing but lorcith all around him. But then, he’d also overheard men saying they were moving the ore away from the city. What was that about?

Rsiran decided he didn’t care. None of that was the reason he was here. Better to fade into the background, have the others ignore him, than draw attention.

No one spoke as they descended. Only the sounds of boots on the stairs mixed with heavy breathing accompanied them on their climb.

Finally, he saw another faint light in the distance. When they reached it, the ground leveled off and opened into a slightly wider tunnel that eventually simply ended. Here the foreman assigned to their group motioned, stepping back and leaning against the wall.

The others in Rsiran’s group started forward, all seeming to know what to do. The thin man with the angry cackle was part of his group. He eyed Rsiran briefly before turning to the wall and starting to work. As he did, the man whispered to the others working next to him.

Rsiran backed up. He didn’t need to draw the man’s attention. Maybe he should have gone down a different tunnel, anything but near the man with the hard gaze, and the far too familiar stare.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and looked. It was the boy from the night before.

“Watch,” he said. He took the pick and demonstrated chipping away at the rock.

The boy worked steadily and slowly revealed the dull grey reflection of a chunk of lorcith. His face twisted with the effort, and he chewed his lip as he swung the pick, the rest of his mouth tight. He worked around the ore until the small nugget was freed. Though it was much smaller than anything used in the shop, the boy still wore a look of satisfaction as he took the metal and slipped it into a pocket.

“Like that,” he said, turning back to Rsiran.

“What do you do with the lorcith you mine?” Rsiran asked, careful not to look to closely at the others.

The boy frowned and wiped a drip of sweat from his brow. “Lorcith?”

“The metal,” Rsiran said.

The boy patted his pocket. “Keep it.” A grin spread across his face. “Until we’re done. Then you give it to the Towners.” He motioned toward the foreman. “They keep a record of how much you’ve collected. When you earn back your sentence, you’re released.”

Rsiran looked at the pick in his hands. The others might be released, but not him. No matter how hard he worked, no release would come.

The sound of the other miners chipping away at the wall became a steady beat, and Rsiran joined in, slowly fading into the rhythm. He moved to a section of the tunnel where he could be alone and began. After working a while, a flash of grey metal rewarded him, and he slowly managed to peel a small chunk of metal no bigger than the tip of his thumb from the stone.

He held the lorcith in his palm and closed his eyes. As he stood there squeezing it, the steady sounds of picks striking the stone echoing throughout the mine, he felt a stirring sensation deep within come from the metal itself, the lorcith resonating with something inside of him. Before he had felt it while working the heated metal, the lorcith directing his hammer, guiding each blow so he had little choice in what was forged.

Would he feel the unmined metal? He stepped toward the wall and pocketed the small rock and swept his hand out over the stone, letting his mind go blank as he strained to feel for lorcith hidden in the rock.

At first, he didn’t think he’d feel anything. Then he became aware of a steady throbbing sense as he swept his hand over the rock above his head. He glanced over and saw the other miners all working at an easy angle. How strange it would look for him to chip away near the ceiling of the tunnel?

He started anyway, settling into the rhythm again, letting the pick rise and fall steadily as it struck into the stone. The first glint of dull grey metal told him he was on the right track, and he picked up the intensity. Soon it became clear that this chunk was larger than the last, possibly even larger than the usual lumps that he worked with in his father’s smith. This much lorcith would be incredibly valuable.

As he worked, the lorcith seemed to call to him, as if he could almost hear it in his mind like a song. What shape it would demand of him? Part of him regretted the fact that he would never know. Someone else would get the opportunity to shape this metal, someone more like his father who would force the ore into a shape of his choosing.

Rsiran shook the thought from his head. Such thoughts were the reason he was sent here in the first place. He had to return from the mine to resume his apprenticeship; only then would he again be allowed at the forge.

He needed to ignore the lorcith, but he couldn’t. The ore pressed on his awareness, demanding his attention.

Rsiran didn’t know how long he worked, chipping away the rock with the dull pick, but he slowly freed a sizeable chunk from the wall. He set it on the ground at his feet and ran his hand over it, his heart trembling. He should have ignored the way lorcith called to him. Wasn’t that what his father had wanted? Pieces of rock mixed with a fine powdered dust were scattered around him.

As he crouched in front of the lump of lorcith, he didn’t notice the boy approach. He slid toward the other side of the metal, kneeling in front of it. “You’ll learn to avoid finds like these soon enough,” he whispered.

Rsiran pulled his eyes away. The strange sensation of the lorcith calling to him faded. “Why?”

“Too dangerous,” the boy said.

“I thought we wanted to find this.” He made a point of glancing at the other miners, but none seemed to be paying him any attention.

The boy shook his head again. “Too dangerous.”

A shrill whistle sounded, and they both turned to look. The foreman stood near one end of the tunnel, whistle in hand. He wore a bored expression on his broad face. He motioned toward the tunnel and the stairs looming in the darkness and started toward them. Most men followed. A few finished picking at whatever they had found, but soon gave up and wandered toward the stairs and the others.

The boy gave Rsiran a worried look, biting his lip as he did. “Got to carry what you collect,” he said and hurried down the tunnel.

Rsiran grunted as he lifted the large hunk of lorcith off the cavern floor. It felt heavy, but he should be able to get it up the stairs. Perhaps the find would impress his father. Enough like this, and he might be allowed to return home soon.

He didn’t know how many stairs he had climbed when he felt something sharp bite into his back, pressing through the fabric of his shirt. He’d heard nothing warning him that anyone still remained behind.

“Set it down and keep climbing.”

Rsiran felt the hot breath on the back of his neck and started to turn. The sharp tip of a pick jabbed deeper into his back, and he froze.

“Turn, and you don’t live through the night.”

Rsiran nodded, suddenly understanding why the boy said it was dangerous to find such large collections of the ore, and remembering how he’d overheard the others talk of controlling the flow of lorcith. The pick pressed harder, and he winced as a slow trickle of blood washed down his back. He had no choice but to do as instructed.

He set the lorcith down. The pick relaxed, just a bit, and he started forward again. As he continued up the stairs, he wondered who had stolen from him, and why. Had they stolen to take credit for the lorcith, or was there another reason, the same reason the flow of lorcith had slowed?

He didn’t dare turn and look back. In the darkness, it might not have mattered anyway.