“You give me your cut of the contract and I’ll do it,” Vylaena replied.
A corner of Skin’s mouth wriggled upwards. “That’s how you treat me for handing you a cushy job in your hour of need?”
“Ether take you, Skin. It’s your fault I’m cut off from my savings. After years of service to you.”
Skin was possibly the only man in Enserion who could bully an armed mercenary and keep his limbs—but even he knew when it was safer to concede. Despite his frail appearance, he’d been in the business long enough to know how to handle his often-intimidating lineup of mercs and hire-hands—and that included knowing when to give a concession or two to keep them coming back for work.
He shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair enough, seeing as he’ll probably screw you over anyway.” Skin nodded over Vylaena’s shoulder, his eyes resting on a booth at the back of the room. “Client’s over there—the big one with the bloody shirt badly hidden beneath that dark brown jerkin.”
Vylaena turned, scanning the room to find the specified man. She spotted him after a moment, drinking alone at a tiny table in one of the private alcoves.
She shouldn’t have been surprised to recognize him—a man in his position was almost guaranteed to find his way to the Deeps—but she still tensed at the discovery. It was like waking up to find a wight in her kitchen—one she’d killed days ago and had never expected to be bothered by again.
Nevertheless, lynd was on the line, so Vylaena pushed her way through the crush of clientele to the man’s table, sliding into the booth opposite him without so much as a greeting.
“So,” she said, her voice hovering between boredom and muted annoyance, “I hear you’re looking for a courier.”
✽✽✽
Thyrian stared at Vylaena Azrel, his eyes wide with disbelief, as she folded her arms on the table. Of all the people in the world who might’ve come to his aid at this moment, it had to be her. She appeared as at ease in this dank place as other women might be in a manicured garden. Although—now that he thought about it—there was nowhere else in the city she’d fit in better. She was Shadowheart, after all. And there were more murderers in this room than fish in the sea.
“You lied to me. You said you refused to take that job,” Thyrian growled, clenching his fingers around his tankard. He felt the sharp kick of adrenaline rise in his throat as anger overrode his normal clearheaded calm. “I should kill you for what you did to us.”
A shallow smile wormed up Vylaena’s face, infuriating Thyrian further. He felt the wood of the tankard creak between his fists.
“Why would I have slaughtered a caravan of your comrades and then taken the time to spirit you back to my house?” the mercenary asked, a thread of amusement seeping into her tone. “That seems rather odd.”
“Because I’m sun-crowned. You didn’t want to offend the goddesses—you said so yourself.”
Vylaena was silent for a long moment, some private discussion going on behind those clever eyes. Then she leaned back in her seat, still smiling. “You shouldn’t believe everything written in the King’s Paper,” she warned. “Last month they claimed the cathedral had elected a mind-reading goat to the Council. But I don’t fault your naiveté. You are Galiffan, after all.”
Thyrian let out a hard breath, his anger cooling. He had too serene a temperament for long-lasting fury; though he’d often wondered whether that was a weakness or a strength.
He regarded the woman before him, trying to assess whether she was being truthful or whether she would say anything just to earn his coin. Her face was too hard, too expressionless, to read.
Goddesses. He wished Ardren was here. His parents’ advisor would know what to do. Would know how to handle this unpredictable woman who always seemed to know exactly how to unbalance him. But Ardren was dead, along with the rest of their doomed caravan.
“You’re wanted by the Guard,” Thyrian pointed out, shoving the thought from his mind. “Even if you’re as innocent as you claim, you can’t take this job if you’re going to get arrested the moment you reach the palace doors.”
Thyrian wasn’t certain if it was just a trick of the light, but he thought he saw Vylaena’s eyes widen slightly. With eagerness? Intrigue? He wasn’t certain.
“You aren’t really so guileless as to believe the only way inside a castle is the front gate, are you?”
Thyrian frowned. There was something in her voice—something he might’ve missed had he not been focusing all his effort into deciphering her every move—something that had escaped her supreme control. Relief.
That was strange, wasn’t it? Why would a woman with her kind of criminal history be relieved at the prospect of delivering a message to the palace?
“You don’t have another option,” Vylaena continued, her voice hardening. Immediately, any hint of emotion he might’ve picked up was gone.
She leaned closer, seizing Thyrian in her cold, pewter gaze. “You’re offering this contract on credit, which earns you no favors. No merc who’s earned her salt is going to take this job without a guarantee of payment.”
“And yet you’re here,” Thyrian countered.
“Because I negotiated a good deal with Skin and I’m tired of slitting throats to settle other people’s pointless squabbles. You hire me now or find some other way to get your message into that damn castle. I can always find other work.”
Thyrian held Vylaena’s gaze for a long minute, searching her eyes for some weakness—for some hesitation he could use to his favor. But her eyes were as solid as the icy peaks of his home realm, and unnerving for the penetrating cleverness gleaming within them. There was something strange about her eyes—something not quite human. It might’ve just been the flickering torchlight, but to Thyrian her irises appeared to shift and morph, snaking and twisting like rogue ether.
What choice did he have? The woman had spirited him to safety once, sharing her food and shelter. She’d denied being the one to move against his men and, though it had been dark and chaotic, he had to admit he hadn’t seen her among those who’d attacked him. She hadn’t really done anything that would be cause for him to distrust her.
And he knew more about her than any other mercenary here. Should she pull anything, he would know exactly who to bring to justice.
“Fine,” he snapped, breaking her stare and taking a long draught of ale. Goddesses help me, he thought, slamming his tankard on the table. “Here’s what I need.”
Thyrian fished inside his jerkin and retrieved a folded piece of grimy parchment. He tossed it to Vylaena with a careless flick of his fingers. “I need this note delivered to Prince Alaric—not to a pageboy, not to a well-meaning courtier—”
“A mythical breed,” Vylaena interjected.
“—but directly to Prince Alaric,” Thyrian finished. “And I need it done as swiftly and discreetly as possible.”
Vylaena picked up the folded note. “It’s not even sealed.”
“It’s written in cypher. Read it if you want; you’ll learn nothing but gibberish.”
“A challenge,” Vylaena replied, grinning as she tucked the note into a hidden pocket—so quickly that Thyrian couldn’t catch where she’d stowed it.
“I’m not paying you to crack a code; I’m paying you to deliver a message,” Thyrian snapped. “If all goes well, you’ll be rewarded handsomely for your effort. But do not hurt the prince. Do you understand? Or I will ensure you do not live long enough to—”
“Do you really think I’m some bloodthirsty savage with no self-control?” Vylaena growled, her eyes going cold.
“I’ve seen your brethren at work,” Thyrian countered, holding her gaze. “Orders get misconstrued. Things are taken too far. I will not have the blood of another friend on my hands because one Shadowheart has to prove that she—”
“Friend?” Vylaena cut in, her voice losing its edge. “The prince is your friend?” Her eyes scanned his with that same uncomfortable sharpness. “Who are you, Thyrian of Galiff?”
/> “Just deliver the message. Can you do that?”
Vylaena sat back in her seat, still eyeing him, but in a more muted, almost dismissive way. “Where do I find you once I’m done?”
“I’ll be back here again tomorrow night. Is that enough time?”
Vylaena just stared at him. “Until tomorrow, then.”
The woman rose without a sound, slipping out of the booth and melting into the crowd like a slender shadow.
8 | The Prince
A charged metallic clang echoed through the empty hall as Prince Alaric of Enserion just barely parried his opponent’s blade. He staggered backward, slow to recover, and winced as the follow-up blow landed on his unprotected right side. Alaric felt his breath leave him in a painful gust but had enough sense to roll out of his opponent’s reach.
“Goddesses, Alaric,” scoffed the attacker. He straightened, lifting the visor on his helm to fix the prince in a disappointed stare. “It’s not even a duel anymore; it’s a beating. What’s wrong with you?”
Alaric wrenched off his own practice helm, revealing a wave of shoulder-length blond hair. He tossed the helm aside, where it clattered against the flagstones. His face, red from effort, was drawn up in ruefulness as he met the other man’s gaze. “Sorry, Eyren. I was thinking.”
“Not about sparring, I can see.”
Alaric shrugged, tossing his blunted practice sword at his discarded helmet. “I’m useless today. Let’s try again tomorrow.”
“You’re useless most days, brother,” Eyren replied, removing his own helm. He held it beneath his arm, leaning into one hip with barely contained exasperation. “This is something else entirely.”
Alaric waved the man away, massaging his sore side with one hand. It had stopped bothering him years ago that all the fighting talent in the family had been left to Eyren. He practiced only to keep from losing what little ability he had—one of the many tasks he took to out of duty alone.
“So,” Eyren said in a softer tone, eyes still fixed on his brother, “what are you going to do?”
Alaric glanced up. “Sweet-talk Myrcella into giving me some ice for this massive welt.”
“No—you idiot—about the caravan. Which you’re obviously still mourning over, telling from that sorry display of swordsmanship.”
Alaric frowned, a familiar ill feeling souring his gut. “He was a friend, Eyren. Not to mention that he was our best hope at—”
“I know, I know,” Eyren replied, sheathing his sword. “But it’s been days, Alaric. His body wasn’t accounted for in the wreckage, but the Guard hasn’t been able to find him, either. You have to assume he’s gone—lost, or worse. Shouldn’t you have a plan? Have you written to the Galiffan court?”
“I will tonight,” Alaric said, tugging at the fingers of his padded gloves. “I’m just . . . I’m still processing it. Still trying to figure out what’s best to do.”
“You need to be more decisive. When you’re king—”
“Rutting Ether, Eyren! You think I don’t understand that?”
Eyren took a sharp breath. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, you’re not,” Alaric snapped, pulling off his gloves and shoving them into his belt. “You know how hard it was to get Father to agree to this in the first place. And now look what’s happened—not only does he think I’m too incompetent to get one man safely to Cyair, but I’ve also gotten fifty others killed in the process. I don’t need any more reminding of my many faults.”
Eyren studied Alaric with pointed brown eyes, a look Alaric recognized. It was the same one Father gave him when he thought Alaric had fallen well short of expectations.
“Of course,” Eyren replied in a curt tone, bowing at the waist. “I’ll leave you alone. Come find me when you’re done crying about it and maybe we can figure out a solution.”
Alaric watched, privately fuming, as his brother stalked from the room. Only when Eyren had slipped through the heavy oak door did Alaric loosen his rancor and frustration on his discarded helm, kicking it across the room in a clatter of abused metal.
But his temper was short-lived; he could already feel it fading, swallowed up by remorse and guilt and sorrow. I can do nothing right, he thought, gathering up his sparring sword and retrieving his helm. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t be civil to his brother. Couldn’t even get one ambassador from a neighboring kingdom safely to Cyair.
He caught a glimpse of the city out one of the arched windows and paused a moment, lingering at the sill, gazing over the expanse of jumbled rooftops and mismatched chimneys below.
Eyren was right. One day he’d be king. King of thieves and beggars, he thought acidly, frowning at the glass. Goddesses. If only he had some real clout at court. King Arnyel had become increasingly blind to reason, but if Alaric could sway some of the more prominent Lords . . .
Something prickled at the front of his skull—a sense he’d carried inside him since birth. Somehow he knew that wasn’t the right path—that the payoff wouldn’t come.
He wished Eyren understood that half his problem was his rutting Knack. He knew well before following through with a plan whether his intended outcome would come of it. And when every option he thought of left him with an ugly, twisted sensation in his gut, of course it looked as though he was indecisive.
I’m not indecisive, Eyren, Alaric thought, turning from the window. I just can’t find a path that will lead me where I want to go.
Alaric was grateful to be Marked by a goddess, but per the limitations of the star-born, his Knack was only so useful. He wasn’t sure whether Yrsa was a chronic jokester or whether she genuinely thought all her gifts were precious to behold, but Alaric privately wished she’d thought to give him something just a bit more . . . refined.
For Alaric had been blessed with a Knack for betting.
Yes, it was his goddess-bestowed talent to run the card tables and the gambling rooms; to place his chips on the right numbers; to know which ethermare would spring past the rest at the track. Winning games was of minimal practicality when one had the responsibilities of a future monarch to contend with, but he tried to get as much use from it as he could. It didn’t help that his Knack sometimes worked unexpectedly, pointing him toward choices that were counterintuitive. Predicting future events, it seemed, was more complicated than it sounded.
At least he hadn’t gotten a Knack for belching melodies or cooking bread that never went stale. He’d heard of some pretty awful Knacks. And at least he’d not been born ether-touched. He already struggled enough to find his place in the political hierarchy at court. Being ether-touched would have robbed him of all credibility. Few Enserionites trusted those who could mold the world around them with an errant thought.
Of course, that doesn’t stop people from seeking out their services when it benefits them.
As Alaric made his way through the palace corridors toward his private quarters, he thought of the ether-touched and frowned. His father wasn’t worried about the recent disappearances, but King Arnyel hadn’t paid much attention to his subjects for years now. It was concerning, that arguably the most powerful denizens in Enserion were vanishing at a steadily increasing rate, but all of Alaric’s efforts to investigate or prod his father into action had been met with the usual scoffing platitudes.
Alaric reached his suite and nodded a greeting to the two guards posted outside the door. Eyren was right. What are you going to do now, Alaric? Your plans all died with that caravan. And the man who was the key to your kingdom’s defense is missing.
He needed a bath. He needed some quiet time to relax and think things through. There was nothing quite like a lengthy soak to clear one’s mind.
Alaric tossed his sparring gear carelessly onto a cushioned sofa, then unbuckled his thick, padded cuirass and abandoned it, too. He walked briskly to his private bathing chamber, running an absentminded hand through his hair. The time for grief was not yet over, but he couldn’t let it cripple him. The world would continue on despite hi
s pain, and he needed to keep up.
The ether-forged pump in the bathing chamber was a little temperamental these days, ever since the Royal Ethersmith had gone missing. These things needed tending every so often or else they wore out or lost their shape, becoming little more than rogue clouds of raw ether—which was another problem altogether. Alaric made a mental note to expedite the vetting process for a replacement, though his hopes were not very high. He didn’t need a Knack for betting to doubt the success of that search. What sane ether-touched would put forth his candidacy while his brethren were vanishing beneath the king’s nose?
Alaric bent over the ether-forged pump and stroked its curved top with a single finger. The material was a rich, dark metallic stone indistinguishable from hematite, but it felt warm beneath his fingers, as if it were somehow alive. It gave a slight glimmer at his touch, giving off a tendril or two of loose ether, and then began gushing steaming water from the open end.
Good. He’d been less than pleased yesterday, when the pump had first spouted daisies, and then a swarm of bees, before shooting out a river of blood. It had been an entirely less than pleasant surprise, and one that had left him in the awkward position of explaining to the maids why he and his bathing room were covered in bloody flowers.
But the water stayed water, and when the large porcelain tub was full, Alaric peeled off his sweaty clothes and sank into the bath.
Only then did he notice the blue-haired woman leaning against the wall beside the door, her arms crossed over her chest and something close to a mischievous smirk painted across her face.
“Hello, Alaric,” she said, her voice a purr of amusement.
The prince jumped, splashing a great deal of water onto the floor in his surprise. He sat straight up, gripping the sides of the tub, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing. “You couldn’t wait half an hour?” he asked, not sharing the woman’s mirth. “I’ve had an awful day and I’m not in the mood for more bad news.”
Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1) Page 7