Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  Weak golden light flickered to life, washing Vylaena’s bedroom in a swath of orange and black. Black, not only for the deep shadows where the tiny lamp could not reach, but also the veritable lake of ether that pooled around her waist. Again.

  Vylaena swiveled quickly, dislodging a puff of ether as her movements disrupted the gentle rolling fog. It was everywhere this time: the floor, the bed, even the rutting side table. It was as if some colorblind painter had come in during the night and run a brush over every surface.

  I can’t keep pretending this is normal.

  Vylaena picked up the lamp and strode to the center of the room, to the couch situated in front of the modest stone hearth. She fell onto the cushions, lamp balanced on her knees, and stared at the light until it blinded her.

  She couldn’t keep going like this, ignoring it. The ether had come to her every night since she’d spoken to Ikna in the Ether, and she knew it meant something. She could feel it, lingering in the air—something coming. Something bad.

  What does it matter? You just look after yourself and the world can fuck itself.

  Right. She didn’t owe the world anything. She didn’t owe Ikna anything.

  Except . . .

  Except . . .

  Maybe she did.

  Vylaena stiffened as the thought took hold. Flinx had said the Shadowheart were Cursed because of their part in Ikna’s suffering. They’d helped a madman torture her. But what if . . . what if there was a way to make amends—to redeem them?

  What if Ikna’s request was the key to her salvation?

  It was a wild, foolish idea. She should have squashed it right there and steeled herself against any further fanciful thoughts. But she was already dressing, pulling off her sleeping tunic and pulling on her cuirass. Pants. Boots. Daggers.

  Hope? Goddesses. She hadn’t felt real hope in . . .

  Since she’d left Aeswic.

  The memory stopped her cold. No; she was smarter now. She wouldn’t run headlong into this. Not when the price of her last mistake was still being tallied . . .

  But Alaric would know what was being done to find the missing ether-touched. She could ask, and decide what to do from there. She wasn’t signing up for anything. She was just gathering intel. As any proper Shadowheart would do.

  The castle corridors were still cool and dim, with only a few silent servants darting here and there to light fires and clean common rooms before the courtiers awoke. They gave her a wide berth, and she ignored them. It was easy, for their hurts were minor; palace servants were practically royalty compared to the rest of the Enserionite peasantry. No starving bellies here—probably the only praise she could muster for the ruling house of Enserion.

  Vylaena didn’t care to waste any time talking her way through Alaric’s guards, so she turned down an adjacent hall and slipped inside a linen cupboard. The cupboard was dark and tiny and full of barrels and cleaning supplies and shelves of spare sheets. She crept along one wall, trying her best not to trip over anything, until she found a small indentation in the wood paneling.

  This particular cupboard, Vylaena had discovered, was the end point of a hidden passage that led directly into the prince’s chambers. Or rather, out of them. It was intended as an escape route, should the prince find himself in need of one. There were two others Vylaena knew about, but only this one could be accessed from the end point.

  The paneling opened only wide enough to allow Vylaena to squeeze inside, and if she’d had her longsword on her back, she’d never have fit. She tugged the narrow door shut behind her and then felt along the thin corridor, holding her breath. It was dusty, and she didn’t want to announce her whereabouts with a careless sneeze.

  The corridor let out behind the tapestry in Alaric’s bathing room. Vylaena pulled the seascape back over the hidden portal and then crept out into the prince’s main chamber, wondering what quip he’d greet her with this time when she woke him. He’d taken to sleeping nude in order to disarm her enough to stop creeping up on him in the middle of the night, but she was certain it embarrassed him much more than her.

  “He’s not here.”

  Vylaena froze just outside the bathing room, her hands flying to her daggers. She didn’t relax when she saw that the speaker was Alaric’s brother, Prince Eyren, seated easily on one of the main chamber’s couches, reading from a book by the light of a single lamp. She had never met the man in person and she didn’t know enough about him to be able to dismiss him as a threat.

  The prince appeared amused by her defensive stance, a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth as he closed his book. He looked very much like his older brother, except with a thinner face and shorter hair. Better built, too—though beside a man like Thyrian, there would be no comparison. So maybe not built, but . . . muscled. Practiced. Not a warrior, but a man who knew the value in knowing a warrior’s skills.

  With well-practiced subtlety, she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet.

  “My, you’re wound tight.” Eyren’s brown eyes flashed, as if he were laughing at her. “If you were hoping to crawl into my brother’s bed, you’ll just have to wait until he returns.”

  Vylaena balked at him. “You see an armed Shadowheart sneaking into the prince’s chambers and your first thought is she’s here to sleep with him?”

  Eyren pushed himself to standing. “Just thought I’d relieve the tension. You look like you’re a heartbeat away from using one of those knives, though I can’t imagine why.”

  Vylaena forced herself to relax, relinquishing her grip on the hilts of her daggers. “I need to speak to the prince. Where is he?”

  “Good question. I was waiting for him myself.”

  Vylaena hesitated, not sure what to say. She didn’t want to wait around until Alaric showed up—not with his brother here. In fact, she’d best leave before he started . . .

  “It appears you know Alaric well, Protector of the Realm. Better than he let on.”

  Great.

  It wasn’t a question, but she could sense the inquiry in his tone. “I’ve been in the prince’s employ for some time,” she said in a curt tone, hoping that would be the end of it.

  One of Eyren’s eyebrows rose. “I’d like to hear the story of that arrangement. Alaric’s not the type to contract mercenaries. Evidently I don’t know him as well as I thought.” He considered her, sharp eyes peering into her own, his thoughts closed to her behind the generic, forced smile she’d seen mirrored on countless other courtier’s faces. “What exactly do you do for him?”

  “That’s between the prince and me. Ask him, if you wish to know.”

  Eyren laughed, making Vylaena flinch. “You’re right; it’s not my business. I’m just surprised he’s taken the initiative to . . . well, do anything. You are his eyes in the city, I assume. Rough type like you. Can go where he can’t.”

  Vylaena was silent.

  Eyren nodded, striding closer, not quite aiming for her but rather for the window to her right, which overlooked one of the castle gardens. “I wish I had someone of your skill in my employ. I could use a woman like you.”

  Vylaena didn’t reply. She simply watched him, silent and stone-faced.

  Eyren shrugged at her, then leaned against the windowsill, gazing down at the sleeping gardens below. “You’ve been in Alaric’s employ for a while, you said?”

  “A few years.”

  Eyren tensed as something occurred to him, and he turned his head toward her. His brows were furrowed. “It was you, wasn’t it? Who actually found Prince Thyrian. Not Alaric.”

  “How would Alaric have ‘found’ the prince from up here?”

  Eyren’s face softened, and he let out another genial laugh. “I like you. Acerbic and unflinching. The type of person who gets things done.” He contemplated her again, his eyes searching for something. “But . . . if it was you, then . . .” His brows twitched together. “Then you had to have found him before the Guard searched that campsite . . .”

  Vylaena’s thr
oat tightened, but she remained silent, holding the prince’s gaze.

  “Were you keeping an eye on him?” asked Eyren.

  “No.”

  “Did you even know who he was?”

  “No.”

  “Then why rescue him? Him, but not any of the others.”

  “He was the only one still alive.”

  Eyren’s gaze sharpened to a point. “But you weren’t paid to do so?”

  Vylaena had no reply. It didn’t matter, though—Eyren merely shrugged and turned back to the window. “I can imagine you’ve seen some . . . difficult things in your life. In that line of work.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. But she was still wary of answering; still gauging his intentions. “Mmm,” she replied, neither confirming nor denying.

  “Do you enjoy it? Your work?”

  “I have skills. I can ask good lynd for them. Keeps me fed.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  What did he want her to say? That she resented her own people for not permitting her a normal life? That even if she wanted to do something different, her background prohibited all else? That she sold her sword out of necessity, not because she got some sick pleasure out of bullying those weaker than herself?

  “I get it,” Eyren continued, still staring out the glass. “Enserion’s in bad shape, and you do what you can to get by. We all do, to varying degrees.” He let out a shallow breath. “Have you ever wondered if there was a different way? If life could be,” he waved a hand, “you know, different. Entirely different.”

  “It’s useless to dream of something that will never happen.”

  Eyren turned to her, his eyes sharp. “But what if it could?”

  At that moment, the main door to Alaric’s suite swung open and the prince himself strode inside, jumping slightly to find his rooms already occupied. “Hmm,” he grumbled, striding to a side table to set down a trio of books and pour himself a glass of water. “Funny place for a secret midnight tryst. I’m not partial to having my private chambers so abused.”

  “Midnight?” Eyren said, striding forward to take a seat on one of the central couches. “Has that Mark on your brow addled your brain? It’s almost dawn.”

  Alaric raised the glass to his lips, glancing out the window. He seemed then to notice the pale light peeking over the horizon. “Interesting. Could’ve sworn I’d been gone only an hour.”

  “What’re you up to now, brother?” Eyren’s tone bordered on exasperation.

  Alaric ignored him, instead turning his attention to the Shadowheart who desperately wished to slink back into the shadows of the bathing room. “Morning, Vylaena. I see you’ve finally met my brother.”

  “You’ve been keeping her from me,” Eyren accused. “I had no idea you had a Shadowheart in your service.”

  “Me? Keep Vylaena away from anything? Hardly. She does as she pleases. Likely she’s already studied your sleeping habits more often than you’d consider comfortable.”

  Eyren glanced over his shoulder to Vylaena, who merely stared back. What could she say? It didn’t hurt to keep tabs on the royals every once in a while.

  “While I appreciate being so popular as to draw visitors so early in the morning,” Alaric continued, “I should probably try to sneak an hour or two of rest.” He glanced between them, a wrinkle growing at his brow. “Why are you both here? Not to bring me breakfast, I see. Shame.”

  Neither Vylaena nor Eyren spoke. Vylaena doubted the younger prince wanted an audience, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask her questions while he was here. Alaric—she and he had a certain rapport. But she knew very little about Eyren, and wasn’t about to talk to him about something so . . . personal.

  “Oh come now,” Alaric pressed. “There’s nothing we can’t say to each other. I trust the two of you with my life, and you should both do the same.”

  Eyren sighed. “Well, I suppose my news won’t really be news much longer, anyway.” He leveled a heavy gaze at his brother. “The conflict in the deserts has escalated. Kyshiin somehow got his hands on siege weapons—plans, materials, all of it. They’ve already been built. And he’s crossed into Terolyn.”

  Alaric stiffened; his face paled. “Jivika?”

  “Likely.”

  Alaric swore. “Jivika is the largest, most fortified city in Terolyn. If he takes it, the others will fall, too.”

  “And then Enserion is vulnerable.”

  Alaric paused, thinking. “Father can’t ignore this. He can’t. I’ll speak with him again. The alliance with Galiff must be signed.”

  “Father’s hunting today. You’ll have to go with him if you want to talk to him.”

  Alaric swore again, loudly. “All Enserion’s other problems aside, there’s now an army marching on our neighbor. And he goes on a hunt.”

  “This isn’t new.”

  “I know, I just wish he . . .” Alaric raised his head, catching Vylaena’s eye. “You and Thyrian will come with me. Perhaps Thyrian’s presence will help influence Father.”

  Vylaena had no intention of participating in these people’s ridiculous version of hunting. But for once, she kept her opinions quiet. “Fine.”

  Alaric’s expression softened. “And why are you here, Vylaena?”

  She already had one hand on the bathing room door. “Just my routine study of your sleeping habits. I’ll go let Thyrian know today’s plans.” Before he could pick apart the lie, she was gone.

  ✽✽✽

  The hunting party left just after dawn, setting off down the wide main avenue of Cyair toward the eastern gate. It was a relatively small group; just a few of King Arnyel’s currently favored courtiers, their sons, the three princes, and Vylaena. Alaric had a feeling Vylaena would never have been permitted to come had she not been both Shadowheart and a Protector of the Realm. The other men wouldn’t have stood to have a woman in the group—not even a woman who could probably best them in hand-to-hand combat with her eyes closed. Even so, no one so much as glanced in her direction. He was certain this gave her only relief, so he let his aggravation pass.

  Vylaena was also the only one not on horseback. “Makes you a bigger target,” she’d told him when she’d refused the mount waiting for her.

  “And gives you a height advantage, not to mention mobility.”

  Vylaena had raised a brow at him. “Mobility? I can gut a man from the ground much faster than it would take me to jump from a horse. Besides, what’s the point? You’re hunting. Not marching to war. And at the pace these overstuffed perfume-breaths are likely to set, I won’t have any trouble matching your gait.”

  Alaric had to admit she had a point, considering it had taken them nearly an hour to clear the city gates. The streets had, per his father’s usual request, been cleared by the Guard before their arrival, allowing them exclusive use of the abandoned roads. Alaric saw grimy faces peering at them through grimier windows and felt his face burn. Yes. Sweep the dirt under the rug. If you can’t see it, it’s not there, right? How far his father had fallen. When his mother had been alive . . .

  Forward, Alaric, forward. No use dwelling on the past.

  The Elderwood was sparser on the eastern side of Cyair, and considered to be the only truly non-haunted part of the ancient wood. Here, shafts of golden light streamed from the gaps between leaves, falling gently upon soft grasses and fallen twigs. The land rolled lazily like the smooth waves of the sea. It was peaceful, and so unlike the palace, that for a long moment Alaric could almost forget the woes that plagued his kingdom.

  Almost.

  He rode beside his father, just ahead of the main party. Eyren, who was an accomplished hunter but never quite welcome to ride beside the king—another injustice that soured Alaric’s stomach—hung back in the main throng, laughing at something one of the courtiers’ sons was saying. Thyrian rode just behind, Vylaena following beside him like a grumpy shadow.

  “Does the latest news concern you?” Alaric asked his father as they rode, glancing over
at the king.

  “Concern me?” King Arnyel turned. There was a youthful gleam in his eye, a gleam of distraction—of eagerness for the hunt and satisfaction at being outdoors on a pleasant day.

  “The conflict to the south,” Alaric clarified, keeping his voice even and calm—inoffensive. “Surely the council has mentioned that Kyshiin marches to Jivika with siege weaponry.”

  “Terolyn won’t fall to a bunch of unorganized savages, Alaric. This is nothing more than another border dispute. They’ve been having these spats for years.”

  Alaric shrugged. “They no longer appear unorganized, Father. I hear they’ve amassed under one banner. That hasn’t happened since the fall of the Iedan Empire, has it not?”

  A crease Alaric knew far too well began growing at his father’s mouth. “The dukes assure me there’s nothing to worry about. Terolyn can defend itself.”

  “Perhaps that might’ve been so in the past. But Kyshiin has embraced the use of ether.”

  “That is hard for me to believe,” Arnyel replied, eyes contemplative. “Still, the reports seem to confirm it. It makes one wonder what exactly happened to convince them to give up their spirit-worship nonsense and embrace the goddesses.”

  A tinge of hope rose in Alaric’s throat. “And now Kyshiin has the numbers, the weaponry, the command to push his way straight through Terolyn. To us. What defenses do we have? The Guard is untested in real combat, and our—”

  “That is enough,” Arnyel growled. “I know what you’re trying to do, Alaric, and I will not be pressured into entering a conflict that is hundreds of leagues away from our borders.”

  “I’m not asking you to enter the conflict, just make preparations in case—”

  “Enough,” Arnyel snapped. “I’ve had enough of your hand-wringing and your doomsaying. I’ve been running this kingdom longer than you’ve been alive. I think I have a perfectly good understanding of what’s best for it. We’ve been safe in these borders for hundreds of years. One madman with a couple pieces of ether-forged silver isn’t going to change that.”

  The king turned away. “You have an ambassador to entertain. Go find Prince Thyrian and keep him company, why don’t you? And try not to leave him with the impression that we Enserionites are all as dreary as you.”