The lorist disappeared around the corner and Flinx increased her pace, her boots smacking against the flagstones. Coward. He’d been avoiding her ever since the note arrived at her office, borne by a nameless acolyte, attached to her leather-bound thesis. The note of feigned regret and ungenuine condolences.
Flinx rounded the corner just as the edge of Vicmon’s robe fluttered out of sight around the next. Letting out a huff of indignation, she sped off after him. What was he going to do, avoid her forever? They both lived here, both worked here.
Her inquiry about the nature of her rejection had been met with the stock “not the right fit” instead of anything specific. When she’d pressed for a face-to-face meeting, she’d been told that the head lorist was too busy.
Not too busy, however, to attend last night’s birthday celebration for Lorist Wylen. Vicmon hadn’t been pleased to see Flinx there, nor had he been inclined to speak to her, and had left rather suddenly—before she’d had a chance to corner him.
He knows what I want to ask, she thought, as she careened through an adjacent corridor and into a portrait gallery. He knew that Flinx had figured it out—that she knew how prejudiced he truly was. What he hadn’t expected, evidently, was that she was not the type of woman to lie down and accept that kind of treatment.
Flinx almost knocked into a pair of acolytes as she sped out of the gallery, and called a hasty apology over her shoulder. But Lorist Vicmon drew farther and farther away. By the Three, he’s fast for an old man, she thought, panting as she plunged into the main library. Several of her colleagues looked up as she dashed through the shelves, searching for the elusive lorist. She thought she spotted him near the medical section but by the time she reached the center of the stacks there, he was gone.
Flinx stopped, clutching her aching middle as she fought to regain her breath. A nearby acolyte, studying from a thick tome of plant illustrations, glared at her from beneath his lashes.
“What?” she snapped.
The acolyte just shook his head, returning his gaze to his work. Likely smart enough to pick up on her mood and let her be.
Flinx let out a hiss of frustration, then turned back toward the library exit. So this is how it’s going to be, she thought. Damn you to the rutting Ether, Vicmon.
The silent curse didn’t make her feel any better, though. A bone-deep anger boiled inside her, sending steam straight to her brain and scalding all rational thought. She stalked back to her office with every intention of penning a strongly worded essay to be distributed beneath the doors of every acolyte, librarian, and lorist in the library.
All she needed was an ally or two—even a few of them banded together would be harder to ignore than a single out-of-shape librarian. Surely someone else in the place would feel the same outrage she did and want to help her do something about it. If only she knew of another woman who aspired to be a lorist . . . but sadly, it was rare for anyone—male or female—to have an interest in undertaking the kind of work required to apply.
Flinx unlocked the door to her office, stepping inside as she fumbled in her pocket for a match. A month ago, she’d only had to say a word and her etherlamp would’ve sparked to life. But with the ether-touched all disappearing—including the Royal Ethersmith, who’d tended to the library’s ether-forged relics—no one had been able to mend it before it had unraveled into a ribbon of raw ether and slithered away.
The match burst to life with an angry sizzle, and Flinx bent over her desk to light the plain oil lamp that rested there. A warm, orange glow suffused the room, and Flinx collapsed into her cushioned desk chair with a deep, exasperated sigh.
Only then did she notice the blinking disc half-hidden beneath a rectangle of loose parchment.
Flinx snatched the paper away, tossing it carelessly aside, and picked up the disc with reverent fingers. It was smooth and glossy and perfectly oblong, like a chip of obsidian buffed to perfection. But there was no way to mistake this sliver of power for mere rock; it blinked, lazily, in even blue beats like a lighthouse guiding a ship to shore.
A Pulser.
Well, technically it was a Suppressed Transplanar Capsule—one of the more well-known classes of etherial relics that she’d written about in her thesis. She called them Pulsers, though, for the nickname was much easier to say and remember. Not to mention much less pretentious.
Flinx turned the Pulser over in her fingers, her anger momentarily forgotten. It had been so long since such a gift had been left for her, and she ached to use it. It could not have come at a better time.
Flinx stood and strode to the door, locking her office from the inside. She tucked the key in her pocket and then bent over the lamp, extinguishing it with a touch. The room was immediately blanketed in darkness.
And then—a burst of light.
It was how she pictured an exploding star to look: as she squeezed the Pulser between her palms, it burst in a flare of blue, expanding first in a flat ring and then a full-on explosion of light, silver-blue sparks skating over her skin as the Pulser was activated. A gust of warm air tangled in Flinx’s hair as the disc’s shell disintegrated, and she took a deep, fortifying breath.
Everything went black.
For a moment Flinx felt the uncomfortable sensation of being stretched further than her body could possibly permit as the Pulser tugged her out of the living world. Heat flooded her flesh, hot enough to burn, but Flinx ignored the feeling. Instead she forced herself to recall the part of her thesis on Transplanar Devices: how they didn’t require any talent with ether to use, but that they were damn tricky to make. Transporting people through the strands of the Ether and back into Reality without seriously maiming them or flat-out killing them was an art form she’d dedicated an entire section to.
Flinx’s breath was quickly running out. The stretching feeling still pulled at her insides, and for a terror-inducing moment she wondered if perhaps the Pulser was faulty, and she’d be caught in between planes, stranded until she ran out of oxygen or her body broke into pieces.
But then everything snapped back into place. She stumbled forward, coughing, into a sitting room that was not her own.
“My El’ahin.”
Almost immediately Flinx was lifted into a warm hug, and she leaned into the familiar scent of vanilla soap and fresh parchment. “Kashvi,” she breathed.
Flinx tipped her head back to take in the wrinkled face of her adoptive father, the nearby firelight glinting off the silver Mark on his lined brow. “I’ve missed you,” she added.
The bald man laughed, his long beard jumping with mirth. He looked the same as always: clear gold eyes hedged by smile wrinkles, a jovial grin on his face, clad in the simple white surcoat of a Lorist of the Cathedral of Eternal Light. She’d been lucky to have him in the long years she’d been researching her thesis; Kashvi was an ether-touched who happened to specialize in Transplanar Devices—and who was generous in gifting them when he wanted a visit.
“You haven’t written in weeks,” the elderly man accused, holding Flinx at arm’s length and fixing her in a pointed stare. “You can’t have missed me that much.”
Flinx gave him a bashful smile. “Sorry, Kashvi. I was finishing my thesis. Any spare words went right into my manuscript.”
“Well, come sit,” Kashvi pressed, leading Flinx to the cluster of worn chairs before the blazing hearth. “I want to hear all about it.”
Flinx settled in her usual armchair, accepting the cup of tea Kashvi poured for her from a plain porcelain pot. She watched as the lorist fell back in his own seat, his movements more stiff and labored than she remembered. When did you get so old, Kashvi? she wondered, noting the way his hands trembled as he raised his own cup to his lips. To be fair, he’d not been a young man even when they’d first met, but the years since had taken their toll.
Not you, too Kashvi. You can’t abandon me, too.
“So,” he said to her, bringing her back to the present, “did you finish? Have you submitted it yet?”
Flinx sighed. “I have. And . . .” She tried her best to keep her voice light, but the cracks in her composure were obvious. “It was uh . . . rejected.”
Kashvi blinked, his amber eyes hardening. “Rejected? You can’t be serious. On what grounds?”
“Evidently, the fact that I’m female.”
Kashvi gaped at her, unable to even form a reply.
Flinx shrugged, cleared her throat, took another sip of tea. “I asked to meet with the head lorist about it,” she continued, “but he’s been supremely effective at avoiding me. And Rynley’s made himself scarce, too.” The injustice of it all came flooding back, tightening her chest. “Kashvi,” she said, tears welling in her eyes, “how could they do this? I studied my whole life for this moment. I wrote four hundred thousand words on my subject. I ate and slept and breathed etherlore for years. But it wasn’t enough. How was it not enough?”
“I’ll speak to Rynley. Surely something—”
“No,” Flinx said hastily, blinking away unshed tears. “I don’t want you to intercede on my behalf.” Not again. I owe you too much already.
Kashvi regarded Flinx for a long moment, his eyes softening. “Why don’t you come back, El’ahin? Enserion was only supposed to be temporary. Until you were old enough to enroll at the cathedral.”
“I know.” Flinx took a fortifying breath. “I just . . . I got settled in, and then I was learning all these wonderful things, and I just couldn’t imagine leaving.”
“You’re grown now. You have options. The cathedral would accept you in a heartbeat. Send your thesis here. Start a new life in Saensre. You’d thrive in this city.”
Flinx didn’t doubt it. The cathedral was the most famous place of scholarship in all of Aethryl, not to mention a haven for all those Marked by the goddesses. In fact, anyone with a Mark was guaranteed entry—along with room and board until age seventeen—to study at the cathedral, so long as they could get themselves there. And so long as they were at least eleven years old.
Unfortunately, Flinx had been nine when her mother had died, leaving her utterly alone in the world save a kindhearted lorist who’d taken pity on the earnest, uneducated street urchin who liked to sneak into his library and admire the pretty books.
It was Kashvi who’d written to his friend, Lorist Rynley, at the Royal Library in Enserion, to see about enrolling Flinx there—the library did not enforce the same age restrictions as the cathedral. Flinx wasn’t from Enserion herself, but she had a scholar’s Mark, and the lorist had reluctantly agreed to mentor her.
There was a certain appeal to the city of Saensre, with its glorious cathedral and bustling metropolis. It was often referred to as the center of the world—if not in geography, at least in significance. Flinx could do anything here; the possibilities were abundant: apply for research grants, publish works of etherlore, find peers who were interested in the same passions and who could offer valuable insight and debate . . .
And yet, those possibilities were tainted—tainted by hunger and fear and violence. Tainted by the sudden, harrowing loss of a beloved mother who had tried her best and failed.
“I’ll consider it,” Flinx said finally, grateful that Kashvi had allowed her the silence to think. “The memories are . . .”
“I know, El’ahin.” Kashvi’s voice was soothing, understanding. “You’ll make your choice when you’re ready.”
Flinx nodded. “I still have one last project to finish, besides.”
Kashvi tensed. “That work for the Shadowheart woman?”
Flinx met the lorist’s disapproving gaze. “I know you don’t support me helping her, but I think she genuinely wants to break her Curse—not just because she wants a way out of the pain, but because she feels unable to truly make her own choices while the Curse holds her. And she wants to change that. Do you fault her?”
“I don’t trust the Shadowheart,” Kashvi snapped, taking a long draught of his tea. “They’re bloodthirsty savages. She’s feeding you nonsense. To some nefarious end.”
“I don’t think so.” Flinx remembered the flicker of hope that had passed over Vylaena’s features when she’d explained why she wanted to lift her Curse so badly.
“My dear friend, Duke Galdor, once took pity on a Shadowheart,” Kashvi warned, his eyes sharp. “He took her into his home. Healed her. Fed her. Clothed her. Even grew to love her. And she repaid his kindness with theft and destruction, leaving him looking like a fool.”
“I’m not trying to woo the woman,” Flinx snorted. “I’m just providing her with information.”
“Well, you should still be careful. Ikna cursed them for a reason, and perhaps this woman is best left as she is.”
Flinx shrugged, letting the topic go. Kashvi had never liked the idea of Flinx helping a Shadowheart. He was just being overprotective.
The lorist fixed Flinx in a contemplative gaze, his gold eyes flickering with the rise and fall of the firelight. Flinx had always liked his eyes, so strange and haunting against the deep tan of his wrinkled skin. He’d been born in the Desert Kingdoms but smuggled into Galiff as a newborn before his tribe could kill him for possessing a Mark. He’d been raised by his mother alone. He and Flinx were alike in that fact. And both had lost their mothers before adolescence.
In the deserts, they called children born with yellow eyes Ezh Dak’har, “spirits of the sands,” and perhaps as beloved by their spirits as the Marked were of the goddesses. If he’d been Unmarked, he might’ve become a great warlord or a mighty shaman. But instead, his mother had risked her life to save his, and he’d followed the path of a lorist.
Kashvi set his teacup on the arm of his chair and ran a hand down the length of his downy beard. He looked as though he wanted to tell Flinx something but was afraid to do so.
“What?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.
Kashvi shook his head slowly. “I just . . . there’s another reason I’d like to have you here with me in Galiff. Perhaps an even better reason than the prejudice of your head lorist.”
Flinx frowned. “And what’s that?”
“The Desert Kingdoms are restless. The other Councilmen are concerned. We’ve been hearing . . . strange rumors coming from the south. Of ether-forged relics that the tribes should not possess. Of allegiances forming that should never have blossomed.”
Flinx could scarcely believe his words. “The clans, playing with ether?” She shook her head. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Surely it’s not true.”
“It’s true,” Kashvi confirmed, his tone grave. “One of our princes—Thyrian, the one who’s a captain in the Order—went on a mission to Alamatta a few months ago and saw it for himself. The warlord Kyshiin has gotten his hands on etherial daggers that instill loyalty with a single stab. Kyshiin has used them to gather allegiance from all the major clans and several of the smaller southern tribes.”
Flinx took a sharp breath. Agency Adjustment Devices were tricky, tricky bits of etherlore. Even more so than Pulsers—and by no small margin. They required fresh ether from the goddesses’ realm and a supremely steady mind. She didn’t know an ether-touched alive today that could manage such a thing; hearts and minds were difficult things to force down paths they didn’t want to tread.
“But the clans despise ether,” she protested, returning her attention to Kashvi. “A warlord would never use a relic like that, even to force an alliance.” She paused, thinking. “What’s Kyshiin planning?”
“No one knows,” the old man replied. “But the Verdant Guard sent a scouting squad down to see what they could find, and . . .” He took a steadying breath. “It seems they’re building siege vehicles.”
Flinx almost fell out of her chair. She was so stunned she couldn’t even speak right away. “What?” she exclaimed. “How, in all of the blackened Ether, did they manage to procure the materials for something like that?” The deserts weren’t exactly ripe with wood or iron. “And where would they have gotten the schematics? They don’t have access
to that kind of knowledge.”
“Well, somehow they do now,” Kashvi said, rubbing his forehead, his silver Mark glittering in the firelight. “They’ve found an ally somewhere—a strong one. Someone with the connections to provide building materials and plans and the means to keep it all covered up. But one thing’s for certain, my darling: the Kingdoms are intent on war.”
War. Yes, it seemed entirely too likely. Terolyn—sweet, peaceful Terolyn—would be the first target, its highly competent but woefully small standing army vastly outnumbered by the united Desert Kingdoms. And then Enserion, which was too weak and too full of hubris to defend itself.
Kashvi was right. Galiff was much safer for her. But even so, it was a large kingdom. It would be impossible to defend completely, and the deserts would slowly pick away at its underbelly, pushing into the country like a flesh-eating worm. The Verdant Guard might be a match for the battle-tested tribesmen, but there would be bloodshed—much of it—and it could last for years. Decades, even.
“What’s being done?” Flinx asked, lifting her head.
“The Council will discuss the matter at our next session,” the lorist replied. “Until then, we have to rely on the leadership of our king, who has bolstered border patrols and garrisons. We don’t want to provoke anything, so we dare not move in a whole army. Not yet. That’s where Jevrick is now, actually—inspecting the warriors.”
“He’s well? I thought he might just be asleep.”
“He’s well enough,” Kashvi replied, a dark undertone seeping into his voice. “But the last thing I want is . . .” He took a calming breath. “He’s too old to be so close to the front lines, even with his warrior’s Mark. He should be here with the rest of the Council, or on the envoy to Estryn.”
“Would Estryn even be a helpful ally? They have no real army, just mercenaries.”
“Any ally is welcome at this point.”
Flinx gritted her teeth. Well, Prince Thyrian’s presence in Enserion made much more sense now. “What about Terolyn?”
Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1) Page 14