The Guild Secret (The Dark Ability Book 6) Read online

  Bluish light glowed from the metal, bright even in the daylight—the metal’s potential. At least, that was what the alchemists believed. He wasn’t sure he agreed. It wasn’t potential so much as it was something about the metal itself.

  It was bad enough that Ephram and the guilds still treated the Elvraeth like something to fear, but now with his friends doing it as well? He needed to get away, to have a chance to clear his mind. That was why he’d come to his smithy.

  A scuffling of steps behind him, and he spun, pulling the knives back to him and slipping them into his pocket. Luca stood watching, his eyes wide with an interested hunger, lingering on the pocket where Rsiran had put them away. The boy hadn’t gained much weight in the time he’d spent with Rsiran, but he had managed to lose most of the wild-eyed insanity in his eyes. There were times when it returned, when it seemed that in spite of everything Luca had gained, he still hadn’t managed to forget, or even distance his mind from what had happened to him in Ilphaesn.

  “Will I be able to learn that?” he asked.

  Rsiran patted the knives in his pocket. “I don’t know. There haven’t been smiths willing to listen to lorcith in generations. So only the Great Watcher knows what will happen.”

  “And the Seers.”

  Rsiran nodded carefully. “And the Seers.” There had been a time when he’d thought that the only Seers he would encounter would be the Elvraeth, and in Elaeavn. Learning how Venass used the metal to augment the ability of their Seers, making them more capable than any found within Elaeavn, reminded him how little he really knew.

  “Have you finished what I asked of you?” It was something he’d asked of him days before that gave Luca a chance to work unimpeded.

  Luca turned to the forge, where the coals glowed brightly, the pleasant heat raising a healthy sweat along their skin. “I did what you asked, but I’m not sure that it turned out like it should.”

  “Show me.”

  Luca lifted a piece of metal off the anvil that Rsiran hadn’t seen when he returned. Immediately, Rsiran could feel what he’d been trying to create with it, recognizing the way the metal must have called to him. It formed a bowl, the lorcith layered in a way that left it with a pattern to the metal. Rudimentary, but an important stage in learning how to become a smith.

  “That’s really good,” Rsiran told him. He took the bowl and ran his fingers along the edge, pushing the still-soft metal as he did. It smoothed some of the harder lines and gave the bowl more of the shape it wanted.

  “It’s nothing like what you make.” He motioned toward the bench where Rsiran’s latest forgings rested. There were dozens, each forged with a combination of his hammer and his ability to push on the metal. In that, he had become something other than a traditional blacksmith. Now, his creations were found throughout the city, and often displayed openly. That was something he would never have thought possible, but then, he would never have thought it possible that he’d be welcomed to the Smith Guild, either.

  “I’ve held a hammer for much longer than you. You’ve been at this for all of a few months. I think what you’ve accomplished is impressive.” He handed the bowl back. “Besides, when I learned, I wasn’t allowed to use lorcith.”

  Luca’s eyes widened. “How did you manage to learn if you weren’t allowed to listen to the song?”

  He smiled. “You learn the basics. How to heat the metal. Where to use the hammer. When to return it to heat and when to quench it. There are smiths who never learn to listen to the song who can make amazing forgings.”

  “I don’t know that I would want to learn without listening to it. The song… It changes as I hammer. There’s something so… so right about it.”

  “It changes because you’re working with it. Much like there were smiths who worked without hearing the song, think of those who can hear the song, but choose to ignore it. They waste entire lives missing a part of themselves.”

  “Even they can eventually learn.”

  Rsiran had heard Seval enter, but more than that, he’d detected the combination of knives and the bracelet that he wore. He couldn’t push on metal the same way that Rsiran could, but he’d been a master smith for so many years that it didn’t matter. He could almost do more with lorcith than Rsiran, and he could definitely do more with the other metals than Rsiran.

  Seval took the bowl from Luca. “Interesting work,” he commented. “I see how the patterns here merge. And the metal… the way that it’s layered…” He looked up and met Luca’s eyes. “Are you sure that you’ve only been at this for a few months?”

  Luca grinned. The compliment from Seval seemed to matter more than any compliment from Rsiran. “I’m sure.”

  “You’ve got a great instructor. Make sure you listen to him when he teaches. I know that I do.”

  Luca looked from Seval to Rsiran and nodded vigorously. “I will.”

  Seval clapped Rsiran on the shoulder and steered him away from the forge. “You didn’t come to inspect my apprentice’s work,” Rsiran said.

  “No, but I probably should have. He’s already at the level of someone with a year behind him. I think you’re going to prove the guild’s faith in you even more than I could have hoped. You were the right choice for guildlord.”

  Rsiran hadn’t known how far along Luca had come. He had no experience with other apprentices, and he’d had the advantage of having grown up with it, sitting by his father from his earliest days. Some apprentices didn’t pursue the career of a smith until they were much older, often in their early teens. Luca couldn’t be much older than that—and possibly younger—but he’d been troubled when Rsiran first started working with him. Years of living alone in the mines would do that. Pulling Luca from the mines had been the kindest thing he could have done, but it had been hard on the boy. The way he looked around, or held his head down when no one watched, told Rsiran that more than anything.

  “If not to check on him, then why the visit?” Rsiran asked.

  “Thought I might show you something. It’s about time, I think.” When Rsiran frowned, Seval only grinned wider at him. “You’ll want to see this, Rsiran.”

  Rsiran glanced over at Luca. He had already chosen another lump of lorcith and held it out from him, tipping his head to the side as he studied it. Rsiran knew that he’d be listening to the metal, focusing on the song, and trying to determine what the metal was willing to become for him. He still marveled at how they were able to use lorcith so openly now, and that the supply of it was no longer constrained as it had been. There had been a time when even a small amount of lorcith was considered precious. Now it was valuable, but more for what it could be, and the way that he might sculpt it, than for its scarcity.

  Seval led him outside where they stood in the narrow street leading to the smithy Rsiran had renovated, with the help of his friends—and Shael. Back then, he’d had to hide the presence of his illegal forge from the rest of the guild. But no more. Rsiran wondered how long ago the smithy—and its owner—had been a part of the guild. For a brief moment, he though about where that smith may have gone. Why he left. But he quickly turned his attention back to Seval.

  “I could Slide us wherever you want,” Rsiran suggested.

  Seval’s eyes widened briefly, a sign of his persistent discomfort with Sliding. Though Rsiran now knew that the guilds had never truly abandoned Sliding, there were many who were uncomfortable with it. He hadn’t realized Seval felt that way when they first met, and when Rsiran had Slid him to Ilphaesn.

  “We can walk,” he said.

  Seval guided them through the streets, quickly reaching Trembel Street, a wide pathway that ran from Upper Town to Lower Town. It was late in the day, and though sun shone overhead, a chill remained in the air. As they stepped away from the protection of the stout buildings hugging the sides of the city, wind gusted, carrying with it the stench of the shore. Rsiran had grown accustomed to the odors during the time that he’d now lived in Lower Town, but wasn’t sure that he would ever r
eally be used to them.

  “Where are we going?” he asked Seval.

  The larger man only glanced back, an amused smile on his face as they turned up the street, heading toward Upper Town. “You’re of the guild now.”

  Rsiran touched his finger to the mark he wore around his neck. Not just of the guild, but the guildlord. There were still times when he couldn’t believe it possible that he’d not only been restored to the guild, but risen to its head.

  “And I appreciate that you have given me such responsibility. I will continue to do what is needed to prove myself.”

  Seval paused and gave him a funny look. “Prove yourself? You’ve done nothing but prove yourself from the moment we finally convinced you to come back to the guild.” That wasn’t quite how Rsiran remembered it, but he wouldn’t argue about those details. “It’s about time the Smith Guild had a louder voice in the Hall of Guilds. I think even Ephram listens when you speak.” Seval smiled and patted Rsiran on the shoulder. “Your student improves at such a pace. I think you’ve shown yourself to be the right man for what we need, Rsiran.”

  They turned onto another street, one exceedingly familiar to him. This was the street he’d grown up on, where his father’s smithy had been, and the place from which he’d been exiled and sent to the mines. Not forgotten, at least not in the same way as some, but sending him to the Ilphaesn mines had been exile enough, especially considering the fact that his father had apparently not intended for him to return.

  “What is this, Seval?” Rsiran asked.

  Seval stood in the middle of the street, his hands clutched over the belly that hid what had once been a muscular frame. He pointed down the street. “You see that shop?” he asked. When Rsiran nodded, he went on, “That is Boldan’s shop. And there,” he said, pointing to another smithy down the street, “is Kevan’s shop.”

  “I know all of this, Seval. You seem to forget the fact that I grew up here.”

  “Forget? How could I? You’re a Lareth, and that is the Lareth smithy.” He motioned to his father’s smithy, the paint on the sign faded, and the window dirtier than it should be. The smithy had been closed for months, reclaimed by the guild and left empty. “The rest of the guild would like you to return to your family smithy.”

  It took Rsiran a moment to register what he was saying. There had been a time when he’d wanted nothing more than to take over his father’s shop. Even after he’d been banished to Ilphaesn, there had been a part of him that had thought he might be able to return, that he might one day be allowed to inherit his family’s smithy. But time had given him a different perspective, and he had made his own way. Now… now there was something right about the fact that he had his own shop, and that it was not near the fringe of Upper Town, but closer to Lower Town, the place he considered home.

  “I have my smithy,” he told Seval.

  “You have a smith, but that is the Lareth smithy.” Seval stopped in front of the faded sign, with Rsiran’s surname written in a flowing script. “Since Neran disappeared, the guild has held his smithy, kept it closed, but safe. But now—”

  “He’ll return, Seval, and the smithy should still be his.”

  Seval smiled sadly. “After all this time, and all that you’ve done to search, you think that he’ll still return? If Venass intended to release him, they would have done so by now. That they haven’t…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rsiran, but I think Neran is gone. Which means this smithy—your family’s smithy—should pass to you.” He clapped Rsiran on the arm and nodded at the dusty window. “At least consider it. For the guild. This way, you’d be connected to the guild as the guildlord should be.”

  “I can always Slide,” he said.

  “You can. But others cannot, and when they need to reach you…”

  “That’s the real issue, then,” Rsiran said.

  “There is an advantage to the tunnels, Rsiran. Now that we’re all talking again, now that the guilds seem open to truly work together, something they only gave lip service to in the past, we need to keep the guildlords connected. That’s how we will defend ourselves from the next attack.”

  Rsiran had sat in on one meeting of the guildlords since assuming the title, and that had been an awkward one. He was not like the other guildlords, men who had served their trade, working their way up to master in their guild before eventually getting voted into the position of guildlord. But the meeting he’d attended made it clear that there was ongoing concern about the safety of the guilds, and the safety of the city. That had been the role of the guilds he’d been most surprised by.

  “I can see that you’re not convinced,” Seval said.

  “It’s not only that,” he said. “The smithy—my smithy—is the first place that ever felt like home. If I return here, it won’t be the same.” How could he ever express to Seval discomfort he felt about his family’s smithy? It might have been in his family, but there was no longer a desire on his part to reclaim it. Better that another ran the smithy than him.

  “Just… just think on it. That’s all I ask. All that any of the master smiths ask.”

  It seemed like such a simple request, and with everything they faced, one that seemed almost unnecessary. The threat of Venass remained, with their connection to shadowsteel, now more dangerous than before. Other Forgotten were scattered, some who might search for a return to power. Shael and Firell again plotting. And one of the Elder Trees was gone, an issue more pressing than the rest.

  More than anything, all Rsiran wanted was a chance to understand the depths of the threat shadowsteel posed. After the last Venass attack, that was the answer he needed to understand the most urgently. But how could he if he was trying to appease the guild or the other guildlords or even the Elvraeth council?

  “I will,” Rsiran promised.

  The smile on Seval’s wide face made the deception harder.

  Chapter 11

  Rsiran stood alone in his smithy, the coal cooling and the line of newly forged heartstone and lorcith knives lying on his bench. Rsiran had used most of the lorcith that he’d collected when last in Ilphaesn to make the knives, almost as if the lorcith recognized that he was not yet done fighting.

  Unlike when he normally worked the forge, his mind continued to race, filled with fears and worries. He had to know about Venass, and more about what they did with shadowsteel.

  So far, he had failed to learn anything that would help him locate where they made it. What he’d discovered in the Forgotten Palace hadn’t been enough to help him understand what Venass might plan with it, or even how they made it.

  There was one place he thought he could go for answers, but until now, he had avoided it.

  Rsiran sat on the pallet he and Jessa used as a bed, and crossed his legs. Did he dare risk Traveling to find out what Venass might be hiding? He didn’t think they could trap him when Traveling, but what if they had discovered some way to do so?

  He had to confirm they had some sort of shadowsteel forge and where it was, even if only to confront Ephram with the information so he would share more about it.

  Rsiran glanced at the door. Though he often left it open these days, the locks were in place. Jessa would be able to sneak in—the locks on his smithy had never prevented her access—but no one else should be able to reach him.

  He closed his eyes and focused on what he remembered of Venass.

  Months had passed since he had been there, but that memory remained etched deep in his mind. He remembered the way the inside of the tower appeared, much as he remembered the way it smelled.

  Taking a breath, he Traveled.

  Rsiran stepped free of his body and appeared inside of Venass.

  A slight pressure worked against him as he did, likely from whatever protections existed around the tower to prevent someone from Sliding into it. When he’d gone the first time, he had been pulled in a Slide. He liked to think that he was skilled enough now that they wouldn’t be able to do the same to him, but he didn’t really
know, and wouldn’t dare risk it. At least with Traveling, there was no real threat to his person.

  He appeared inside the massive entry hall. Faint light came from everywhere, and it took a moment to realize that it was lorcith in the walls. He had detected it in massive amounts when he had been here before, and that lorcith had almost managed to prevent him from Sliding, but it was during that visit that he had discovered he could pull himself into a Slide.

  Rsiran floated, moving from room to room on the main level. He saw no sign of any Venass. Before, he had thought them scholars. Likely they were scholars of a sort, only what they studied was a way to wield power and destruction.

  He drifted down and found the room where he’d managed to reach Jessa. The tile still seemed cold and lifeless, and the hearth looked as if it had never carried the warmth of a fire. Nothing about the room seemed as if it was lived in.

  Moving on, Rsiran drifted. He came upon a row of massive doors of lorcith. On the other side of these doors were cells. This was where he’d been held. Traveling in this way, he went in and then back out of each cell, searching for his father or anyone else that Venass might hold, but found each of the rooms empty.

  From there, he went back up, looking through the tower. Strange that he should find no one here, but equally strange that he found nothing that would help him understand what Venass might have been working on. When he had been here before, there had been evidence of the cylinders, as well as the scholars, but where had they gone?

  The tower appeared empty.

  He approached stairs that wound along the outer wall, leading to a landing. A hall opened up and he searched, finding no sign of anyone. Not his father or smiths who might be responsible for shadowsteel, not any of the Hjan, and no scholars. There was nothing here.

  Where were they?

  Unless… Could they present some sort of mirage to him? Did Venass plan for the possibility that he might Travel to the tower, and shield themselves from him?