Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “I don’t do that kind of work anymore,” the woman snapped, in the terse, hardened tone of someone tired of repeating herself. “The solicitor, whoever he was, was less than pleased when I told him so.”

  “Do you know who might’ve accepted?”

  “Inquiries could always be made, but why bother? What’s done is done.”

  “What’s done is not what’s done,” Thyrian snapped, anger building in his chest. She was Shadowheart; she’d never understand. She didn’t know camaraderie, friendship, loyalty—goddesses above, they didn’t even have families in those wretched caves! Children were separated from their mothers the moment they were born. It was likely she’d never cared about anyone in her entire life.

  “This is not my feud,” the woman replied, unconcerned. “If you want answers, track them down yourself.”

  Thyrian frowned, even though he knew it was useless to expect empathy from a Shadowheart. And yet . . . if what she claimed was true, he was only alive because she’d removed him from that campsite. Another Shadowheart would have left him, or slit his throat herself. But she had not.

  He ran another hand over his face, composing himself. “Will you at least tell me your name? I . . . it seems I owe you my thanks.”

  The woman hesitated, eyeing him with that same hard, closed face—perhaps she had been expecting him to press the issue. But then she astonished him with a reply.

  “Vylaena. Vylaena Azrel of the Shadowheart—as you must’ve already worked out, telling by the way you’ve latched onto that sword.”

  Thyrian cleared his throat to cover his grimace. “Well met, Vylaena Azrel. I am Thyrian. Of Galiff.”

  Vylaena’s lips softened, betraying the hint of a smile. “So I was right—a foreigner. You came awfully far, Thyrian of Galiff, to stumble so close to the gates of Cyair.”

  Thyrian ignored this. He’d deal with it when he was alone. He could offer her that much for spiriting him away to safety. “Why were you there?” he asked instead.

  “At the caravan?”

  Thyrian nodded.

  “To assess a threat. And I wanted to see what was so special as to earn a bounty of six thousand lynd.” Her eyes sharpened on him.

  “You could’ve just left me in that clearing with the others,” Thyrian pressed, skirting the implied question. “Why did you bring me here?”

  The woman’s half-smile vanished, and her eyes flickered to his forehead. “I’m already on one goddess’s shit list. I don’t need to be on another’s.” She paused. “Scholar or warrior?”

  “Is it not obvious?”

  “I’ve been surprised before.”

  Thyrian shrugged; he could say the same himself. “Warrior. The Mark has been good to me—Asta has been good to me.”

  “Except for last night.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly, without any hint of provocation, that Thyrian couldn’t even be offended. The woman didn’t wait for a reply; she strode back to the hearth and fished her apples out, setting them down on a waiting platter at the central table.

  “There’s more wholesome food in the pantry,” she explained, glancing up at him briefly, “Bread and cheese and some eggs, probably. You should eat before your hunger kills us both.”

  She pulled two tin plates from a shelf and began rummaging through a wooden cabinet before Thyrian decided he might as well try to stand again. He rose—slowly this time—and was relieved to find his balance still fairly intact. The narrow ladder to the ground floor was a nuisance, but he managed it, coming down to join Vylaena in the room below.

  “What’s a Shadowheart doing out in the Elderwood?” Thyrian asked as he took the eggs and iron skillet she offered, hoping he wouldn’t make a fool of himself—he hadn’t cooked for himself since . . . damn. How long had it been?

  “Living.”

  Thyrian frowned. “Why are you living out here?”

  “The excitement. Some nights the ether gets so riled up it turns my tomatoes into one-eyed fish and makes the water pump spew sour milk.”

  Thyrian eyed the woman, his brow creasing. Sarcasm, in a Shadowheart? It was mildly unsettling. But he understood what she was doing, and he could respect her wish for privacy. He was a guest in her home, after all.

  “Yes,” he replied in a flat tone, “that sounds wonderful.”

  Vylaena merely smiled into her forkful of roasted apple.

  The two of them fell into an uneasy silence as Thyrian cooked a few of the eggs, dumping the mashed contents of the pan onto the empty plate waiting on the table. He offered the woman half but she declined with a sharp twist of her head, her eyes still fastened on him with uncomfortable perceptiveness. He took the seat opposite her and picked up the second fork she’d procured for him.

  “You have two days at most before the wights find their way here,” the woman said after he’d taken a few bites, her voice startling him as it broke the silence.

  Wights? Oh, right. She’d said something about bodies and appropriation. In his grief he hadn’t given it a second thought. His throat tightened as he finally understood the fates of his comrades’ bodies.

  “Etherway patrol will likely find the remains of your caravan this morning, if they haven’t already,” Vylaena continued, nonchalantly digging into her apple as though commenting on the latest stage play or telling him which ethermare won yesterday’s race. “They might be able to pick a few stragglers off, but the rest will already be too far into the forest to follow. You’ll want to be away before the creatures get here. Unless you want to try your luck with that sword again.”

  Thyrian struggled to process this, his mind still clouded by the pain of loss and the guilt of having failed to protect the rest of his party. It was hard to concentrate on forming a plan to proceed—not just because of the emotions warring in his heart but because he’d never had to. He’d always had superiors, teachers, advisors—people with expertise and experience who’d steered him toward the correct path. And he’d been happy to follow orders, happy to carry out those plans with his sword and his goddess-given strengths.

  And now he was alone.

  Alone, yes, but you still have a mission to complete, he thought, gritting his teeth. He forced his pain to the back of his mind, packaging it for later.

  If he faltered now, what would those men have died for? And what would happen to Galiff? People were counting on him, and he would not allow this—of all the much more dangerous missions he’d been a part of—to be the first one he failed.

  He would have to do his best. For his men. For Galiff. Whatever it took, he would finish this.

  “I’ll be gone at first light, if you’ll permit me one more night to gain my bearings,” Thyrian said, reflexively touching the welt at his temple. His mind was still foggy; he didn’t want to venture forward without a clear head.

  Vylaena’s gaze merely flicked to him and then away, but she did not refuse his request. He took that as agreement.

  “Where will you go?” he asked, taking another bite of his breakfast. For the first time since waking he noted that the cottage seemed rather bare—not merely due to the likely acerbic tastes of its owner but because its owner had begun to load her belongings into various sacks and crates stacked against the far wall. She was not going to try her luck against the wights it seemed.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and Thyrian wondered if he’d surprised her with the question. Has no one ever asked after your wellbeing before? he thought, immediately deciding it unlikely.

  “Elsewhere,” Vylaena replied coolly, returning her attention to her food.

  Thyrian blinked at her, unused to such terse replies. She’s Shadowheart, he reminded himself, allowing her the space she desired. She could obviously take care of herself. And he had more important things to worry about than the evacuation plans of a mysterious blue-haired mercenary.

  They ate together in silence, and afterward Thyrian walked outside to clean himself beneath the water pump—which, to his relief, was spewing water an
d not sour milk today. He tried to keep his eyes on his washing and not on the charred bit of ground at the far side of Vylaena’s compound, where he swore he saw a jumble of blackened human bones scattered amongst the ashes.

  Vylaena appeared at the back door. “Nothing I have is going to fit you,” she said, tossing a wrinkled horse blanket at him, “but you can use this until your clothes dry.” Thyrian nodded his thanks, waiting until the woman had continued on into the Elderwood before stripping and washing himself thoroughly beneath the icy water. The Shadowheart didn’t have the same concept of modesty that other Aethryllians did, but there was something about being naked and vulnerable around the woman that did not appeal to him.

  The ground at his feet was muddy and bloodstained by the time he was through, and he wrapped the blanket around his waist before going to work on his ruined clothes. By the Three—how was he going to enter Cyair looking like he’d just been on a murderous rampage?

  He would have to. Somehow. He’d find a way.

  Thyrian was hanging his dripping clothes on the laundry line when Vylaena returned, carrying a dead rabbit in one hand and a bloody knife in the other.

  “For dinner,” she announced as she passed him.

  He glanced at her, noting the knife. “Wouldn’t a bow have been a little easier?” he asked with a teasing smile.

  Vylaena paused at the back door, swiveling her head to face him. By the look of unadulterated disgust on her face, he might as well have just insulted her mother. “A bow is a coward’s weapon,” she spat.

  She stepped inside, leaving Thyrian staring at the empty doorframe.

  5 | The Deeps

  When Vylaena awoke the next morning—an hour before dawn, as always—Thyrian had already vanished from the padded window seat he’d insisted upon using as a bed. She’d not expected him to linger, but a deep wave of relief rolled through her when she rose from own bed to find him gone—as if she were finally free to breathe again.

  It was an unseasonably grey day. Heavy clouds, hovering close to the treetops like a pilled wool cloak, promised rain. But Vylaena had work to do, prepping her cottage for the long absence she expected would be necessary. There was a lot to finish: harvesting any food she could salvage from her garden or the orchard at the north side of her compound, releasing her precious chickens into the forest to fend for themselves, burying the belongings she didn’t want stolen and marking their places on a slip of parchment. She was busy, but an agitated energy squirmed in her muscles, unwilling to be distracted by work. It was as though she’d forgotten something terribly important, leaving behind a nagging sensation that constantly stalked the edges of her awareness.

  It didn’t help when night began to fall and the storms finally erupted, drowning her cottage in a relentless barrage of rain. She could have been the only person in the world, locked in a cage of stone and water and impending darkness.

  Isolated.

  Trapped.

  She hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Perhaps she’d been gone too long from Cyair, as much as she hated the city. How long had it been, two months? Three?

  Long enough to warrant a check-in on the research I commissioned.

  That was true. She was headed to the city anyway, to escape the coming wight infestation. It was a good time to take care of old business. The thought sent a calming wave of purpose into her gut, and she buried the nagging sensation deep beneath it.

  The next morning, Vylaena ate a hearty breakfast and watched the sun rise, its golden light blooming like a flower over the treetops. Then she strapped the few bags she’d packed onto her back—her last harvest, a variety of favorite weapons, her lute—and headed southeast through the Elderwood.

  The deluge of the previous night had turned the forest into a veritable marshland, leaving a cool, musty scent in the air—somehow smelling of decay and new-growing life at once, an aroma that left her frowning. It reminded her far too much of Aeswic and the damp caves of her childhood.

  Vylaena never entered Cyair through the main gates—they were too closely monitored, and she appreciated her anonymity. Besides, there would inevitably be a few guards who knew her face from one altercation or another, and she didn’t want to risk a confrontation. She’d have to use a more clever route.

  Vylaena always knew when she was within fifty feet of the city walls, even though the overgrown brush of the Elderwood barred them from view. Heady and thick, pain curled around her body like the greeting of a curious cat—one satisfied to sink its claws deep into her muscles upon recognizing her. She took a sharp breath in response; no matter how well she prepared herself, leaving isolation was always . . . difficult.

  The range of Vylaena’s Curse was not extensive, but still wide enough that there were usually a few dozen strains on her composure at any time. Even now, some fifty feet from the curtain wall, she could pick out more hurts than she could count on both hands: the sharp twist of heartbreak, the dull gnaw of hunger, the cruel splinter of disease; regret, sickness, injury, grief. It didn’t matter what kingdom she traveled to, or to which city within them—the pain was always the same. Tremendous. Unrelenting. Constant.

  As she stepped beyond that invisible boundary and into the full exposure of the city’s populace, Vylaena stumbled beneath the hammer of anguish that crashed against her body. In her peripheral, a furry shadow darted between the trees: one of Ikna’s Wolves, finding her at a moment of weakness—ready to pounce, should she desire an end to the pain.

  “No,” she snapped, more to herself than to it, a reminder of what she was and what she could overcome. Gritting her teeth, she straightened, lifted her chin, and welcomed the discomfort. She would grow accustomed to it. She always did.

  She had to.

  Vylaena picked her way to the giant stones of the city’s outer wall, the grey rock rough and mossy from its long centuries holding vigil against the capricious Elderwood. The old, broken sewer entrance appeared to still be passable, once Vylaena had dislodged a leafy tree limb from atop the sawed-off grate. She wasn’t the only one who used this entrance; vagabonds, illegal goods traders, drug smugglers, and mercenaries like herself came and went through the six-foot tall, rounded portal. Today, however, the sewer was empty. Likely no one would venture out to use it until dark, when the miscreants of Cyair emerged to play their violent games.

  As Vylaena pulled herself up into the darkened hole, she couldn’t help but marvel at the Royal Guard’s continued incompetency. Not only did they barely patrol the outer wall, it seemed they never did perimeter checks, either—or else this entry would’ve been sealed ages ago. Vylaena had lived in this forest for two years now, and this sewer had never been blocked.

  She wasn’t surprised, of course—she’d long given up any childish expectation that the King cared about his realm’s prosperity or security—but a tiny, barely-breathing hope flickered at the pit of her stomach nonetheless. She studiously ignored it.

  The sewer pipe was as musty and dank as Vylaena remembered, but the smell was a minor nuisance compared to the pain she grappled to control. She steadied herself with a long breath and then continued on her way, concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other.

  This particular sewer had been disconnected from the main lines, so it was almost always dry, even after a hard rain like the one last night. It was part of a larger, labyrinthine system that ran beneath Cyair: leagues and leagues of copper pipe, stone brick, and natural caverns that had been appropriated for the city’s use.

  There were also ruins: large, square chambers that weren’t natural-made. Faded remnants of mosaic or paint lined the walls of some sections. It was said that modern Cyair had been built atop the ruins of an ancient, pre-Imperial city. Vylaena had discovered enough ancient artifacts in these sewers to believe it.

  In the shallower sections, grates in the streets above provided ample light to guide one’s way, though in the more ancient, deeper tunnels you almost always needed a torch or an etherlamp. Vylaena had heard
that the Assassin’s Guild was housed in one of the deeper parts of the sewers. Cloaked by darkness, it was protected by men who could navigate the tunnels merely by clicking their tongues and listening for the echo. Despite her confidence in her ability to defend herself, Vylaena was relieved that her explorations of the Cyair underground had not yet led her to their lair.

  Vylaena headed south, following a mental map she’d memorized long ago and could follow even in complete darkness. If she closed her eyes, it was almost as if she walked the streets instead of the sewers; she could barely hear the scuttling of rats and the trickle of stale water beneath the rumbling bustle of the city above. Merchants shouted their wares, carriage wheels clacked against uneven cobblestones, and children played in empty alleyways. She could have tipped her face up to catch a glimpse of the city through the grates, but she did not; her concentration was centered on her body—on each careful footfall, on the deliberate inhale and exhale of her breath, on the labored beating of her overburdened heart.

  Traveling through the city was always difficult at first, as the pains of the folk above swarmed her: a broken ankle, a sore throat, grief for a recently dead father; a pulled muscle, a bothersome tooth, the dread of being unable to pay back a debt. Vylaena collected people’s hurts like a beggar might shuffle through trash, piling odd bits of this and that onto her weary shoulders as she walked.

  It was close to an hour before the sounds of the city quieted and the pains Vylaena felt grew sharper but further between. She’d finally reached the southwest side of the residential district, where the slums met the warehouses that edged the river docks. Few people lived in this area, too far from the market district to be convenient and too close to the docks to be safe. For her, it was perfect.

  The warehouses were used mainly for storage or shipbuilding, and so there was little reason for people to linger in this part of town. The odd lost drunk floated through Vylaena’s awareness, but she was already hardening to the discomfort of other people’s woes. She found the access door she was looking for, pushed aside the heavy metal cover, and climbed up onto the street.