Chapter 1
Rsiran crouched atop the rocky outcropping, looking down upon Elaeavn. Clouds swirled distantly above the city, and a wind he hadn’t felt below pulled at his shirt. As usual, when he sat atop the flat-topped Krali Rock, he stared down at the Floating Palace, wondering what it would be like to live within the high white walls. At least here, standing atop Krali, he could pretend he was someone different, and not the son of a smith the Great Watcher had cursed.
From here, the daylight was prolonged. Already down in the palace, pale blue lights glowed in a few windows, the soft light so different than anywhere else in the city. Elvraeth light. Around the rest of the city, simple candles flickered for light. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys before catching the wind and rising high into the sky to join the clouds.
Rsiran knew he should return to his parents’ home, but he felt at peace high above Elaeavn. Once back in the city, the ever-present knot at the pit of his stomach would return, gnawing painfully. Unlike everyone else with a real ability, that knot would probably never leave.
Another gust of wind blew across the rock, a mixture of smoke and the distant sea. The vague scent of lorcith from the mines in the north drifted with the wind, bitter and sharp and so familiar from years spent at the smith with his father.
He sighed. Staying here would do nothing but further irritate his father. Closing his eyes, he Slid, stepping from atop the rock and back to his house in the middle of the city. The Slide took him to the alley outside the house, careful to conceal his return. Rsiran considered simply Sliding into his room, but that opened him to more questions than he wanted. As far as his father was concerned, his ability should never be used. Only those cursed by the Great Watcher had the ability to Slide, and—as his father saw it—it was an ability meant for little more than thieving and killing. That Rsiran knew of no others with his ability meant his father was probably right.
His sister sat as if waiting for him as he opened the door. “You should not have returned,” Alyse said.
Rsiran let the door close silently behind him and looked over at his sister’s oval face and deep green eyes, sleek black hair tied over her shoulder, and frowned. “Where else would I have gone?”
She shrugged. “Tonight will not be a good night for you.”
He swallowed. Few nights were good for him anymore. Ever since their father had learned of his ability, Rsiran had feared returning, sneaking into the house as late as possible to avoid him. Better than sleeping in the street. “Is he here?”
She looked down the hall and nodded. “A bottle deep.”
“Of?”
“Ale. You know the shop isn’t doing well.”
She didn’t need to tell him that. As his father’s apprentice, he saw how little work they had. Even the journeyman Thenis knew something was off.
Rsiran sighed. It was bad enough when his father was angry with him about his ability. It was worse when he was drunk. That was how he’d learned he was a Slider in the first place.
“Can you not use it?” Alyse asked.
He glared at her. “Can’t all have your gifts.”
He pushed his mental barrier back into place. Years of living with her had trained him to be careful around Alyse. She was Sighted and a Reader. Almost as blessed as the Elvraeth themselves. But all in Elaeavn had learned to protect themselves from Readers, learning early in life how to build mental barriers.
She returned his stare defiantly. Though he was taller and stronger, she did not fear him, using the two years she had on him to her advantage. “I will not apologize for the fact that the Great Watcher gifted me with my abilities.”
Rsiran pushed past her. “You were doubly blessed while I was cursed,” he muttered. “At least that’s how they view it.”
“Rsiran!” she hissed.
He took another step before stopping and turning back to her. Worry marked her face, twisting the corners of her eyes. One slender hand clutched the small necklace hanging from the lorcith chain their father had made, a Shaer gift given when her abilities had manifested, a gift so rare for any but the Elvraeth to possess. He would receive no such gift from his father.
“Maybe you should…”
“Should what?” he whispered. “Not return? Stay out on the street? Give up my ’ship?”
To her credit, Alyse did not look away. “Yes.”
His heart dropped. Even Alyse abandoned him. “Where would I go?”
She shook her head but did not answer.
Rsiran glared at her for another moment before turning away and sulking down the narrow hall toward his room. He could simply Slide into his room, but if his father discovered that he did that, there would be no return. At least this way, he could pretend the ability did not exist.
As he grabbed the handle to the door, he smelled his father’s approach. The stink of ale weighed heavily in the air, burning at Rsiran’s nostrils.
“’S late,” his father rumbled.
Rsiran froze, uncertain if an assault would follow.
“Ya get the shop cleaned?” his father asked.
He turned and faced his father. Nearly the same height but twice as wide, his father loomed over him. His eyes were reddened and his face ruddy. Soot still smeared his cheeks and clothes from the forge. The fumes from the ale mixed with the soot.
“The shop is clean,” Rsiran answered, straightening his back.
“Took ya that long, did it?”
Rsiran blinked. Again, he considered Sliding away. That he would think such a thing only reinforced how badly his father treated him, but doing so would only make everything worse. He considered his next words carefully. “I worked at the forge a bit,” he admitted. His father would see the results of his work regardless.
Reddened eyes narrowed. “Did I say ya could work the forge?”
Rsiran took a steadying breath. If his father became unwilling to sponsor his apprenticeship, he truly would be lost. Working at the forge was the only thing he enjoyed. “Sir?”
His father stumbled, catching himself on the wall near Rsiran’s head with a beefy hand. Rsiran flinched, unable to help himself. A dark look flittered across his father’s pale green eyes, the mark of their people.
“You think you already know enough?” he asked. “Think yourself ready to be a journeyman?”
“I’m nearly of age, and I have apprenticed now for three years.”
His father pushed off from the wall with a grunt. He wobbled briefly as he stared at Rsiran. “Three years and you think you can run my shop?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Three years and you can work my forge?” he said, raising his voice.
His mother slipped into the hall, wearing a pale yellow robe and slippers. Her face was drawn, and her greying hair pulled severely over her head into a tight roll. Just once, he hoped she would intervene instead of simply watching. Her eyes flared deeper green as she Read his father. As drunk as he was, his barriers were likely down. Not for the first time, Rsiran wished he shared that gift, as useless as it often was in Elaeavn.
“You pay attention when I speak to you!” his father shouted.
Rsiran snapped his eyes back to his father. His heart hammered. Get away, back to his room, close the door, and let his father sleep off the ale. Tomorrow he could pretend none of this happened. “Father?”
His father’s mouth turned into a sneer. “Do not call me ‘Father.’ Not while I hold your ’ship.”
“Yes, sir,” Rsiran said. He tried slipping back a step, but his heel hit the wall.
His father leaned in, his breath hot and stinking of ale. “Did you fire down the forge after you finished your ‘work’?”
Rsiran blinked, sudden panic freezing his mind. Had he tampered the coals? Leaving the forge blazing could damage it, or worse, the shop.
“I think so,” he stammered.
His father leaned back and shifted his weight. In an instant, he drew back and slapped Rsiran across the face with an open palm. The force sent him flying backward and slamming into the wall. “You think?” he roared.
Rsiran clutched his cheek. Heat burned across his face, and he leaned forward, steadying himself from falling. “I will return to the shop and check,” he managed to say.
His father tottered backward and leaned against the opposite wall. “You will tell me if you failed to tamper the forge.” The rage in his voice seemed to be fading, the effort of striking him stealing some of his anger.
Rsiran stood and nodded.
“Restock the coals while you are there.”
Rsiran could only nod again.
His mother would not meet his eyes as he turned. She stood with arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set tightly in a frown. As usual, she said nothing.
Rsiran started toward the front of the house. Alyse stood near the door, her face less severe than their mother’s but no more compassion lining it. “I told you that you should not have returned,” she whispered.
He looked down at her and shrugged. “Where else would I go?” he asked again.
As he grabbed the handle to the door, his father lumbered out of the hall. “Rsiran.”
Rsiran turned, hoping for an apology, a show of emotion, of something that would tell him that he was useful. “Sir?”
“What were you forging?”
Rsiran noted the dangerous tone in his voice. “Iron,” he lied. He did not dare mention that he used lorcith.
His father sniffed. “And what did you make?”
Rsiran blinked. “Something simple.”
His father snorted. “Simple. Don’t ya go tarnishing my shop with any dark creations.” He coughed and bounced off another wall. “Another mistake, and I’ll send you to the mines till you’re better prepared for your ’ship.” Without waiting for a response, his father turned and weaved back down the hall, his wide back slowly fading into the shadows.
Rsiran stepped out the door and back onto the street. Half of him hoped his mother or sister would come after him; tell him his father was being unreasonable. But they would not. Alyse wouldn’t risk angering either of them, and Rsiran could not seem to stop.
Rain now fell from the grey sky. The air had a hint of salty sea spray mixed with the smells from the fishmongers wafting up from the docks. He considered Sliding to the shop but decided against it. Walking might clear his head, and the rain would cool the flame in his cheek where his father had struck him.
Pulling his cloak tight around his neck, he started up the slanted street. Rainwater cascaded down carefully set stones, forming small pools in the wide flat areas between streets. Narrow drains filtered the water through hidden pipes, draining toward the sea far below. The earliest city engineers were artisans in how they designed the city, and from above, the effect appeared like a waterfall.
Few others were out in the streets tonight, the rain keeping doors and shutters closed. Rsiran didn’t mind the damp. His cloak kept him warm, and his boots kept his feet dry. After spending all day sweating in the heat of the forge, the rain felt refreshing. As he walked, his hand drifted to the solid metal blade he had forged earlier.
It was made entirely of lorcith mined in the Ilphaesn Mountain to the north. Lorcith had long been coveted for its durability and hardness. Items forged out of the precious metal were highly valued in places like Asador or Yleran, great cities to the east and north, far past the Aisl Forest. Never weapons, though. The Elaeavn smiths would never create weapons out of lorcith; the ruling Elvraeth forbade such craftings, though Rsiran had not yet learned why. Another thing his apprenticeship had not yet taught him.
Rsiran rubbed his finger along the blade, wincing as he felt the sharp edge that had taken hours to hone, hours when he was supposed to be organizing and cleaning his father’s shop. His finger slid over the mark he had etched into the base. The chunk of lorcith had almost sung to him, demanding to be shaped into the slender blade.
The rain tapered to little more than a steady mist as he neared the shop. All around were other stores, most closed for the evening. Another smithy was down the street, flickering light filtered through closed shutters. The steady muted clang of hammer on metal rang out.
Not for the first time, he wished his father had apprenticed him with a different smith. Such an arrangement had been done before and would likely benefit them both. Instead, his father chose to torment him. Rather than teaching him to work the forge, his father forced him to clean the shop and keep the coals lit, telling him he would learn first by watching. Rarely, he was allowed to be striker, doing little more than swinging the heavy hammer. To him, those were the good days.
Inside the shop, a soft glow radiated from the forge, heating the room. He hadn’t tampered the coals as his father had asked. Rsiran’s heart sank. He would have to tell his father. He hoped in the morning, the punishment would be less severe. He considered lying, but never knew how much the journeymen who worked in the shop shared with his father. Getting caught in a lie would be worse than admitting what he’d neglected.
Rsiran sighed and moved to the small lantern set atop one of the workbenches, without Sight, he saw little more than simple shadows in the darkness. He lit the lantern using the coals from the forge, and it bloomed to life.
The shop was simply built out of stone like most of the buildings in Elaeavn. Tools hung on hooks along one wall. A bin beneath them held hunks of unshaped metal. His father’s recent works stacked atop a long shelf along the opposite wall. Mostly lanterns, decorative platters, and utensils—all items that sold well. He pulled the slender blade out of his pocket and set it next to work done by his father, spinning it on the table. A waste of lorcith. A forbidden forging. Much like his ability, one given by the Great Watcher to thieves and murderers, it was something he had to hide.
Rsiran sighed. If he could change the ability given to him, he would. Something useful, like Sight or perhaps Listening. Anything but an ability he was compelled to hide.
Returning to the forge, he began to tamp the coals but stopped. More than anything, he needed to clear his head before he returned. Maybe give his father enough time to fall asleep.
The lorcith called to him, a strange and seductive call that he couldn’t resist. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he took an unshaped piece, fired up the forge, and began heating the metal. He would show his father he could smith items of value. Perhaps then, he would let him do more than simply sweep the floors.
Chapter 2
Panic set in as Rsiran realized that he’d made another slender blade, a twin of the first. Weapons were forbidden for him to forge, but even more so out of lorcith. How long had he been hammering? Would his father still be awake when he returned home, determined to know if he had put out the coals, or would he wonder what had taken him so long to check the forge?
As he looked at the blade, he still couldn’t help but feel proud of what he had created. The shape matched the first perfectly and had a pleasing heft. Not surprisingly, the lorcith folded well and took a sharp edge as he honed it on the grinding wheel. It didn’t matter that Rsiran had no use for such blades. The crafting mattered.
Pocketing both blades, he hurriedly put out the coals. After extinguishing the lantern, he left the shop, careful to lock the door behind him. He would not provide his father with another excuse to punish him. The missing lorcith would be reason enough. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice. These days he noticed less and less.
Drizzling rain still misted down. Rsiran rubbed a hand across his face and pulled away a handful of dark soot. He wiped his hands on his cloak, feeling the reassuring weight of the blades hidden in one of the pockets. In spite of himself, he smiled. For some reason, it felt good to have something else that was forbidden besides his ability.
At this hour, the sky was dark, a hint of rolling clouds far overhead and waves crashing along the shore beneath Elaeavn. Somewhere nearby, there came the sound of hushed voices arguing, and he paused to listen, wondering at the source.
“I’ll have your money—”
“It’s no longer about the money. I have another way for you to repay me.”
Rsiran backed into the shadows, suddenly not wanting to be out on the street.
“I don’t like the sound of that—”
“Have I ever led you astray? Besides, you wouldn’t want your secret discovered, would you?”
A soft laugh drifted out. “Not much of a secret.” The voice paused. “What is it you want from me?”
“Tomorrow. Near the docks. I’ll show you.”
Another laugh. “Dramatic, aren’t you? Fine. Tomorrow then.”
Rsiran scrambled back, trying to hide, when a shape burst out of the shadows of a nearby alley and crashed into him.
Rsiran fell to the ground in a heap. One of his blades flew from the pocket in his cloak and clattered to the stones. Someone grunted nearby, shuffling on the stone.
He pulled himself to his knees and reached for the blade. Another hand reached it first.
“That’s mine.” Rsiran tried to keep the terror from his voice and failed. What would happen if this were one of the constables? He couldn’t be caught with a lorcith knife. His father wouldn’t have to kill him then; he’d be thrown in prison, or worse, sent to the mines to serve penance.
The man standing across from him wore a dark cloak that was not quite black, greying hair slicked back over his head, his sun-weathered face wrinkled at the eyes as he frowned. He spun the knife in his hand. “Yours?” he asked, frowning. “Not a common knife, is it? Not common at all.” He spun it in his hand as he looked at the light softly reflecting off the metal. “A knife like this seems like it has a purpose.” His voice was as rough as his face. Even in the darkness, Rsiran could tell that his eyes were the palest of greens, a sign of limited ability.
Rsiran nodded. “It’s mine,” he repeated carefully, praying the man wouldn’t recognize what the knife was made from. Violence in this part of Elaeavn was rare, not like in Lower Town. Rsiran had even overheard his father speaking to Seval, one of the other master smiths, about a rebellion, but he found that hard to believe. Still, he couldn’t help the nervous flutter he felt in his stomach. He held his hand out but took a step back.
The man held the knife close up to his face. Not Sighted, at least, though as pale as his eyes were, whatever ability he had would be weak. “How would you acquire something of this quality?” the man asked.
Rsiran felt a surge of pride at the compliment. If only his father would pay him such compliments. “I didn’t acquire it.”
The man frowned again. “Did you steal it?”
Rsiran shook his head. “I…” How to answer? What would this man do? “I made it.”
The man turned it over again and looked over at Rsiran. “Made it?” One finger traced the etching near the base of the blade where Rsiran had carved his initials in a flourish, creating a specialized mark. “Are you not a bit young to be a smith?”
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