Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “He’s um . . . he’s actually here now,” Kaesra said, the words tangling upon each other as they fell from her painted lips. “If I’m to be completely honest.”

  Vylaena’s hand twitched to her dagger again. “Which room?”

  “Don’t hurt any of my girls, Vylaena. Understood?”

  “Which room?”

  Kaesra hesitated a moment, glancing at Thyrian as if to beg for his help. “Twenty. Your word, Vylaena.”

  Vylaena had already turned for the archway, but she paused long enough to turn her head. “My word.”

  ✽✽✽

  Thyrian followed at Vylaena’s heels as she stalked down the Golden Orchid’s back corridor, passing dark-paneled oak doors with bronze numbers nailed above each lintel. He was tense, keeping one eye fixed on his companion and unsure what plan was currently forming in her head. If there was one at all.

  Vylaena seemed so single-minded sometimes—so fixed on the task at hand. There was a focused intensity about her that he could almost reach out and touch, as if she left behind a churning trail of fire. She was always so sure of herself—so sure that what she was doing was right. He’d once been that way, too, back when things were simple and he wasn’t floundering in a role he’d never trained for.

  I’m not cut out to be an ambassador, he thought. Ambassadors are useful to their kingdoms, and I’ve done little but visit with my friend and hide in my rooms.

  Thyrian didn’t allow the thought to linger. He was doing something now, at least—whatever it was they were doing. And he would much rather be chasing a pissed-off Shadowheart through a brothel than sitting at the palace, waiting for a piece of paper to be signed. As odd as his current situation might be.

  He glanced at the blue-haired woman. He’d never liked working with mercenaries. They had no honor, no conscience, no depth. But as little as he knew Vylaena, he had to admit she was something else entirely. She didn’t seem to have regrets—not even for the men she’d killed or the consequences of her past actions—but she also didn’t go out of her way to spill blood. Nor did she appear to particularly enjoy the underworld in which she lived; it seemed more a necessity—a product of her circumstances—rather than any mindful choice.

  If you’d had that choice, Vylaena, what would you have done with your life?

  They stopped at the door marked with a bronze 20, pausing at the threshold. Vylaena’s eyes slid to Thyrian’s and she murmured in a stern voice, “I don’t intend to kill him. But if he tries to run, make sure he stops.”

  Thyrian gritted his teeth, hand tensed around the pommel of his sword. An order—good. He needed a solid directive again. He nodded his reply.

  Vylaena turned, planted a foot, and then kicked the door open.

  A woman screamed; as he followed Vylaena inside, Thyrian noted a blonde girl in a thin silk dress scampering backward on a plush canopy bed. A black-haired man at the back of the room stood abruptly at their entrance, rising from a cushioned chaise, his tunic unbuttoned and his boots scattered across the floor—Serk, Thyrian concluded.

  The man’s eyes widened, his face going pale, as he appeared to recognize Vylaena.

  She wasted no time. She sprung, knocking him backwards into the chaise, and he clawed at her, dragging them both to the ground. The delicate golden table in front of the couch rocked precariously before overturning, scattering a ceramic bowl and an assortment of fruit across the paneled floor.

  The girl on the bed screamed again as a dagger appeared in Vylaena’s hand. Thyrian held out an open hand to silence her. “It’s alright,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing tone.

  “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Serk growled, one arm pinned under his back and the other wrapped around Vylaena’s wrist.

  “Why do you want Prince Thyrian dead?” Vylaena demanded, her hand shaking as she struggled to lower the dagger to Serk’s neck. Slowly, slowly, she gained traction.

  Serk let out a sound of frustrated desperation, kicking his legs in a futile attempt to dislodge the woman from his chest. “Let me up and I’ll tell you.”

  Vylaena laughed, and the sound sliced through Thyrian’s chest with cruel malevolence. “You can speak perfectly well on your back.”

  “I just . . . my pocket . . . it’s in my pocket.”

  “What’s in your pocket?”

  “The letter. From my employer. Let me show you. It explains everything.”

  Vylaena hesitated, then reached down and plunged her hand into the man’s pants pocket. “There’s no . . .”

  She yelped, twisting backwards at an unnatural angle—as though her spine had snapped in half. Her dagger clattered to the floor. A small, smooth stone that shone silver-black in the lamplight dropped from her fingers and clattered to the floorboards. She fell sideways, twitching, as Serk shuffled out from beneath her.

  “Vylaena!” Thyrian rushed to her, pressing a hand to her cheek. But her skin was hot, burning with such ferocity that he withdrew his fingers immediately. Her pewter eyes were squeezed shut, as if the only thing holding back her screams was the thin veil of her eyelids.

  Thyrian grabbed Vylaena’s discarded dagger and whirled on Serk. “What have you done to her?” he demanded.

  “So the rumors are true,” Serk said conversationally from the far corner of the room. He had pulled a tiny blinking disc from his other pocket and was holding it up to the light, as if checking it for flaws. “The bitch was once owned by a goddess.”

  Thyrian leaped forward as blue light erupted from the disc, engulfing the room in a burst of brilliance. Blinded and desperate, he threw the knife directly at the center of the light—

  —and it disappeared, along with any trace of Serk.

  Rutting Ether.

  Thyrian bent, examining the tiny stone that had sent Vylaena into such a shock. It didn’t look like anything special, just a regular chip of rock, buffed smooth by running water. Except that this rock shimmered an eerie silver-blue, glinting out of sync with the flickering of the room’s lamps, as if it were somehow sentient, trying to communicate with—

  He recoiled, clenching his fist around the pommel of his sword. No. It couldn’t be. This was some sick joke, a nightmare of his past dredged up and shoved into his face. This stone—this ether-forged relic—he knew what it was.

  And that gave him no comfort.

  Vylaena murmured and stirred, pushing herself into a seated position. Thyrian quickly snatched the stone off the floor—he had nothing to fear from this relic—and slipped it into his pocket. He reached out to help Vylaena up, but the glare she gave him was enough to boil the skin off his bones, so he let her be.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, surveying her for any injuries. She wasn’t bleeding. Instead, she simply looked exhausted—almost the same as the night she’d found him at the temple, after all the lights had gone out. She looked like she’d been bruised and battered from a lengthy fistfight, minus the actual bruises and battering.

  Vylaena ignored the question. “Would’ve preferred if you’d jumped in after him instead of just throwing the dagger,” she said, a twist of humor softening her inflection, “but I suppose Alaric would’ve taken my head for losing you, and I’m rather fond of it.”

  Thyrian glanced over his shoulder at the young courtesan on the bed, who trembled beneath the quilts like a newborn lamb taking her first steps. “You should find Kaesra and let her know you’re unharmed,” he said. “The danger has passed.”

  The girl nodded in relief, practically sprinting off the bed and out the door. Thyrian promptly returned his attention to Vylaena, who was slumped against the side of the chaise, seated but just barely. She appeared as though she were three cups too deep into a night of revelry.

  “Well,” he said, amused at the image, “you’ve looked better.”

  The woman threw him a stern look that was much more like her usual self. “And do you often concern yourself with my looks?”

  “Of course. One stormy glare an
d I know to prepare to defend myself.”

  A corner of Vylaena’s mouth twitched upwards. “Intimidation is easy and straightforward. Gets the point across quickly.”

  Thyrian grunted. “I wouldn’t say you intimidate me. I’m just not going to let you get a free swing in.”

  A real smile curled up Vylaena’s cheek, and her grey eyes glinted. “I have other ways to disarm a man, you know.”

  “I don’t doubt it. A pretty dress and a lithe figure, I think you said.”

  Vylaena grinned at him. “You sound like Alaric, with your clever replies. I think he’s been a bad influence on you.”

  Thyrian frowned. “Are you insinuating that I’m not normally clever?”

  She tilted her head to the side, eyes still fixed on him. His stomach tightened as her gaze intensified. “You’ve always been extraordinarily serious around me.”

  “We’ve only known each other a week.”

  The color had returned to Vylaena’s face, and she was sitting more fully upright now. “I know that you barely looked at the women on our way in. And that my tricks would likely fall flat on you.”

  Thyrian tried to picture Vylaena in a dress, flirting her way through a locked door, but couldn’t. He shook his head. “What man would possibly think he had a chance with a Shadowheart?”

  “Some men think me a challenge,” Vylaena replied with a tinge of bitterness, pulling herself to standing with the aid of the couch cushions. Her voice softened and an impish grin curled over her lips. “A few actually managed to prove themselves worthy.”

  Thyrian blinked at her. “But I thought you Shadowheart were—”

  “We are,” Vylaena replied without missing a beat. “We’re assigned a mate at seventeen and must produce at least one child to be considered full-blooded Shadowheart.” She turned her back to him, brushing stray hairs away from the nape of her neck. Elegant blue-black symbols hovered beneath her hairline, and she traced them with a finger. “We are branded on our birthdays with the name of said mate.” She turned back around and flashed him another cool, wry smile. “It’s as close to romance as we get.”

  Thyrian watched as the woman checked her knives and daggers, assuring herself she’d not lost more than one in her scuffle with Serk. He struggled to process her words. He’d known the Shadowheart were assigned mates—out of necessity, not sentimentality—but little more than that. “So you have a . . .”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

  “I don’t need to. To either question, the answer is the same. No mate, no child. I left before my body was stolen from me, and decided for myself with whom I shared it.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “Be careful, Thyrian. Men always desire what they can’t have. Don’t be like Alaric, please. For both our sakes.”

  Thyrian held her gaze, stupefied on multiple accounts. Vylaena? Alaric? No, Alaric wasn’t stupid enough to fall for the only woman who could never love him back.

  And she thought that he might?

  Thyrian felt his throat tighten as the time-worn image of a raven-haired woman flickered into his mind. No. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. The stone in his pocket suddenly felt immensely heavy.

  Vylaena patted the empty sheath at her hip. “Come,” she added, as if the conversation that had left Thyrian’s ears burning was no more consequential than the weather. “I’ve a dagger to replace. Do you think Alaric would be very upset if I swiped one of his? It’s not like he uses them.”

  Thyrian took a fortifying breath, clearing his thoughts. “You don’t want Alaric’s taste in weaponry. Too pretty—too encrusted with useless gems.” He pulled a short blade from a sheath at the small of his back, pressing it into Vylaena’s hands. “Here. I lost your dagger. Have one of mine in return.”

  Vylaena stared at him as though he’d just asked for her hand in marriage. Mistrust swirled in her eyes. “I can just buy a new one. I don’t want gifts.”

  “Keep it,” Thyrian pressed, giving her a dry grin. “I’ve learned how dangerous it is to owe a debt to you.”

  She paused, glancing at the weapon briefly before returning his smile—though it was still shadowed by unease. She sheathed the blade at her side, accepting the offering. “Let’s go, then,” she replied. “I want to find out more about this Lord Wroth.”

  21 | The Soulstone

  “And he just . . . disappeared,” Alaric repeated, giving Vylaena an incredulous look she knew stemmed more from weariness than disbelief.

  “He had a journey-stone,” she replied. “An etherial relic used to get from one place to another almost immediately.”

  “And this,” Thyrian added, pulling from his pocket a smooth bit of rock that glinted silver as it caught the light. “Which incapacitated Vylaena long enough for him to escape.” He turned his head, giving her a weighty glance. “I am sorry I failed to stop him.”

  Vylaena sniffed. What was done was done. “So who is he? Who’s this Lord Wroth?”

  Alaric shook his head slowly, eyes clouded. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” He looked up. “I’m sorry, I don’t think he’s been at court in the last few years, if he’s an Enserionite nobleman at all.”

  “There must be some way to look him up,” Thyrian said with a shake of his head. “A record of Enserion’s noble families, or something.”

  Alaric straightened. “Yes . . . you’re right. Actually, there’s a woman at the Royal Library who could be helpful in this—she might know where to look. Surely she isn’t too busy to answer one question.”

  “Atremidora Flinx?” Vylaena supplied.

  Alaric’s eyes widened as he turned to her. “How did—”

  “You said helpful,” Vylaena said. “Of the lot of them, there’s only one librarian who fits that description.”

  “And you would know because . . .?”

  Vylaena merely stared at him, unwilling to grant him a reply.

  “Who is this?” Thyrian asked, glancing back and forth between them.

  “A scholar of the Royal Library,” Vylaena answered, turning for the door. “Alaric’s right—she’s a good source to ask about Lord Wroth.”

  Alaric’s eyes were still fixed on Vylaena when she reached the knob, a queer expression fixed on his face. A dull pain—so muddled and tangled that even Vylaena couldn’t decipher it—swirled in his gut, but he was doing his best to suppress it. That was new; he’d never tried to shield his pain from her before.

  “First the matron of the Golden Orchid and now a Librarian of the Royal Library,” Alaric noted to Thyrian. “What do you think? Should we still believe her claim that she has no friends?”

  “If paying someone for information constitutes friendship, then perhaps you’re right,” Vylaena replied coolly. She pulled open the door. “Are you boys coming, or do I have to do all the work myself?”

  ✽✽✽

  Flinx had repeated it to herself a thousand times: You are not a failure. You are not giving up. You’re just moving on and there’s nothing wrong with that. The repetition hadn’t quite fooled her yet.

  And she still didn’t feel very confident in those words as she raised a hand to rap on her mentor’s office door, having just come from an especially demeaning shift cleaning out the library’s only banquet hall, where a celebratory dinner was to be held that evening in honor of Otger’s promotion to lorist.

  That should have been me, she couldn’t help but think, her string of empowerments dissipating. She should have been the honoree tonight, not that idiot Otger. The injustice of it soured her stomach.

  Flinx knocked on Rynley’s office door again, a little harder this time, and then turned the knob. The door creaked open at her touch, and she saw that the room was flush with crystalline light, courtesy of a gorgeous etherlamp molded into the shape of a willow tree. It rested on a table, its long limbs rustling gently in a nonexistent wind, leaves twinkling like silver stars. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, reminding Flinx of the work o
f a popular ethersmith named Ivariel, who’d run a business selling such pieces from her home in the city. She, like so many others, had seemingly disappeared this past year.

  Such a loss, Flinx thought, meandering over to admire the lamp from a closer angle. She reached out and parted the leaves, admiring the way they glinted as they flowed through her fingers. It was surprising that the lamp was still working at all; if it was an Ivariel, it would have been made almost a year ago. And a year was a long time for a relic like this to last. Perhaps the woman had simply moved out of the city, and Rynley had gotten the lamp through a relic merchant.

  The fact that the lamp was on puzzled Flinx more than its origins; it was a waste, really—spurring the death of the lamp at a faster rate. Rynley wouldn’t have left it on unless he’d been called away from his office in a hurry. Flinx drew back, her stomach giving an odd twist, and glanced around. Nothing appeared out of place; the shelves were meticulously ordered, all the furniture was upright, and the single window was latched and unbroken. But her eyes caught on the wide maple desk, where a handkerchief lay across an old hand-bound book, obscuring the cover.

  Interest pricked the base of her spine.

  Glancing once at the door, Flinx wound her way around the desk and gently lifted the edge of the handkerchief, revealing the worn, letter-pressed title.

  Imperial Relics and their Origins.

  Flinx’s breath caught in her throat. Why, in the names of the Three, did Rynley have a book of ether-forged relics on his desk? When she’d first announced to him the topic of her thesis, he’d done his best to talk her out of it. He’d never shown even the slightest interest in her work since—he’d once told her it was the only subject he didn’t care to know anything about.

  You lied to me.

  The words pounded in her heart, tearing at the tenuous bindings that linked her with the man who’d sponsored her entry into the library. The secret archive had been one thing—there were books in there that were obviously lorist-level only, holding knowledge which might be abused in the wrong librarian’s hands. But how could he have kept something like this from her, when he’d known of her struggle to find good sources?