Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  She stared at the title for a long moment, the letters burning into her eyes, before she noticed the thin velvet bookmark that trailed from the center of the tome. What’s this? she thought, pulling the handkerchief aside and flicking the book open to the marked page. When she began to read, her heart turned cold in her chest.

  There is no other artifact more powerful, however, than the infamous Breaking Stone, forged by Tygnon himself near the end of his reign.

  Flinx took a sharp breath. By the Three. This was it—this was the kind of book she’d been searching for. For her thesis, for Vylaena . . .

  The doorknob to Rynley’s office jiggled, and Flinx jumped, hastily closing the book and tossing the handkerchief back over its cover. She had barely enough time to whirl around and pretend she was looking out the window before Rynley himself entered the room.

  “Flinx? I thought you were on housekeeping duty.”

  Flinx turned, giving her mentor what she hoped was a look of bored nonchalance. “Finished. I came by to give you the . . .”

  She stared at him. Rynley was an old man, to be sure, but today he looked as though he were two breaths from the grave. His hair was thinner than she remembered, his eyes were underlined by weary purple smudges, and his cheeks were so sunken she wondered if she should escort him straight to the kitchen.

  “Lorist Rynley?” she ventured, her stomach dropping to her toes. “Are you sure you’re well?”

  The lorist blinked at her for a moment, as if he didn’t quite understand the question. His eyes flickered to the book on his desk—the one covered by the handkerchief—and then back to her. Fear, primal and black as ether, sprung to life in his eyes.

  “Rynley?” Flinx repeated, taking a step around the desk toward him.

  He blinked at her, and the look of fear dissipated. “You came by to give me what?”

  Flinx eyed the man, pressing her lips together. “The news,” she finally replied. “I’ve decided to leave the library—leave Cyair, actually—after I finish my remaining projects. I’m going back to Saensre to present my thesis to the lorists at the cathedral.”

  Rynley nodded slowly, walking past her to fall heavily into his padded desk chair. “Good. I think that’s for the best.”

  Flinx could barely keep her mouth from falling open. Rynley hated Saensre. He thought the cathedral pretentious and its lorists frivolous fools. She couldn’t recall him ever speaking one good thing about the city, apart from his lukewarm admiration of Lorist Kashvi.

  “You’re taking this better than I imagined,” Flinx sputtered.

  Rynley glanced up. “Times are changing, child. Things I . . .” He took a breath, and began again. “Surely you’ve heard the Desert Kingdoms are marching on Terolyn as we speak. You know little will stop them from coming for Enserion, should they prevail there.”

  Flinx nodded, a curt jerk of the chin.

  “And there’s . . .” Fear flickered back into his eyes. “You’re better off in Galiff. Safe, where their armies are strong and the goddesses still mean something to people. When war comes, I want you as far from Cyair as possible.”

  “Rynley,” Flinx breathed, falling to her knees before his chair, “Please—tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

  Rynley reached out and grasped Flinx’s hands, enclosing them within his own. She could feel the clammy sweat on his palms and the shaking in his fingers. “You’re a bright girl,” he said to her. “They’re going to need you. Go to Galiff, and stay there.”

  There was a warning in his tone; he expected something worse than a war with the Desert Kingdoms. “I will.” She paused. “Will you be alright here?”

  Rynley didn’t answer. He simply retracted his hands from hers, fixing her in one of his more familiar looks of grandfatherly scrutiny. “Don’t go running off without returning any books you’ve been hoarding in that cave of an office.”

  Flinx nodded, rising. “I will, Rynley. And I’ll stop by before I leave. To say goodbye.”

  Rynley grunted in reply, waving her out the door. Flinx relented, taking her leave with a pensive frown.

  ✽✽✽

  Alaric lowered himself into the cushioned office chair, surveying the tidy desk stacked with neat sheets of parchment and a few loose scrolls. A row of pencils, freshly sharpened, rested beside what looked like the unfinished draft of a children’s school workbook.

  So you are a teacher, he noted. His gut twisted, uncomfortable and uneasy in the private chamber of the woman who’d declined his plea for help. Which was fine. He kept telling himself it was fine. He didn’t want to be a king who demanded things. He wanted them to be freely given. And she had simply not been able to.

  Alaric felt Vylaena’s eyes on him. He glanced to his left to meet her gaze—inquisitive, quizzical, cool—and then looked away. He did his best to ignore the gnawing ache in his chest; he didn’t need Vylaena asking him any pointed questions.

  The door creaked open, and he, Thyrian—who was standing stiff-backed near Alaric’s right—and Vylaena turned to watch the owner of the office enter.

  She was wearing a different shift today—a library-standard grey that seemed far too drab for the woman beneath. She should wear red, or gold, he thought, blinking, uncertain from where the thought had sprung. She wore her hair in the same loose crown of tightly coiled curls as before, exposing the soft, angled lines of her heart-shaped face and slender, elegant neck. Her warm, intelligent eyes widened as she noted that her office was already occupied, graceful lashes almost skimming the delicate sweep of arched brows.

  Alaric stood abruptly, vacating Flinx’s chair, and her head swiveled toward him. Her full lips parted slightly as her eyes found his, and they acknowledged each other in silence.

  Did she, too, regret how their last meeting had ended? With a quiet farewell and the heavy onus of unmet expectations? Alaric felt a quiet, surprised pleasure at finding himself back in her presence, despite what had happened. He wondered if she felt the same.

  But then her eyes slid to his left, to Vylaena, and the librarian’s expression cooled. “I suppose you think a bit of lynd entitles you to make yourself at home in my office whenever it pleases you,” she told the woman.

  Alaric let out a choked peal of nervous laughter, but an amused smile curled up Vylaena’s lips. “I hear you’ve already met Alaric,” she replied, “but allow me to introduce Prince Thyrian of Galiff.”

  “I heard what happened to your caravan, and I am sorry for your loss,” Flinx replied, eyes flicking to Thyrian and noting his Mark. “Though it seems Asta must truly have her eye on you.”

  “She must. Though sending a Shadowheart to rescue me was an unusual choice.”

  Vylaena, obviously tired of the pleasantries, stepped forward before the librarian could reply. “We need your help, Flinx. And your silence. There’s lynd in it for you.”

  Alaric—who was still gazing at Flinx, trying to get a read on her—jumped slightly, remembering his part. “Right.” He unhooked a robust leather bag from his belt and offered it across the librarian’s desk. “For you.”

  The librarian eyed the purse for a lengthy moment. Then, with a muted expression somewhere near reluctance, she accepted it. “If the weight of this is any indication,” she replied cautiously, “you need quite a bit of help.” She kept her gaze leveled on Alaric, who stared right back. At least I can give you this, she seemed to say, a silent offer of recompense softening her expression.

  Her eyes flicked to Vylaena. “I’d heard you’d been invited to live at the palace, but wasn’t sure whether I could believe it. What have you gotten mixed up in now?”

  “Believe me, it’s not my choice,” Vylaena confirmed, her voice hard. “We’re trying to find the man behind the attack on Thyrian’s caravan.”

  “And you believe I can help?”

  “We have a name, but we can’t place it,” Vylaena replied, crossing her arms. “We thought you might be able to tell us who he is.”

  “What’s the name
?”

  “Lord Wroth.”

  Flinx’s brows furrowed, making her golden Mark twitch. “Well,” she said, “I’d have to check the catalog of royal genealogy to be sure, but I don’t think there’s a Lord Wroth currently alive in Enserion.”

  Alaric eyed her. “Currently alive?”

  Flinx shrugged, meeting his gaze. “Well, Wroth was once a noble family name. It belonged to Emperor Tygnon, before he took his official title. He was known as Lord Wroth for several years, during the length of time after he overthrew his father and before he married Queen Brynja of Ieda.”

  “I knew I’d heard that name!” Alaric exclaimed, rounding Flinx’s desk. “I remember now—that was back when Enserion was split into several kingdoms. Tygnon lived in Haelstyn, did he not? About where Cyair stands today.”

  “Correct,” she replied, a warm smile spilling over her lips. Alaric felt his own curl up in reply. “I’m impressed. Pre-Imperial history is uncommon knowledge.”

  “So the Wroths originated here,” Thyrian said, drawing Flinx’s gaze, “but they ultimately ended up in Ieda? We’re looking for an Iedan nobleman?”

  Flinx shook her head. “The line ended with Tygnon. He had only one recognized child—a female, Aelstrid, the one who bore the famous shield—who married into a different family. The name died out.”

  “So this man doesn’t actually exist?” Vylaena clarified.

  “It could be an alias,” Alaric spoke up, leaning back to rest against Flinx’s desk. “Someone who took the name as a cover.”

  “An interesting name to choose,” Flinx pointed out in an uneasy tone.

  “So the person who wants me dead took the name of a man who conquered most of Aethryl,” Thyrian repeated. “If the Desert Kingdoms weren’t currently united and marching on Terolyn, I’d not be so apprehensive, but . . .” He shook his head. “If someone’s trying to finish what Tygnon started . . .”

  A heavy quiet fell over the four, each of them nursing private thoughts. Rutting Ether. Alaric desperately hoped there was another explanation. Could Lord Wroth be Kyshiin of Aughrin? Could the warlord really have set his sights on reviving an Empire that had once tried to conquer his own people?

  “We had an altercation with Lord Wroth’s lackey today, a man called Serk,” Thyrian spoke up, pulling from his pocket a chip of stone. “He had a curious weapon on him. Vylaena said your specialty included ether-forged relics; while I believe I know what this is, I was hoping you could prove me wrong.”

  Flinx stepped away from Alaric and toward the other prince, reaching out to take the stone he offered. It was small, fitting comfortably in her palm. She tipped it toward the desk lamp, lips pursed as she examined the relic. By all appearances it could have been a normal rock—smooth, oblong, black. But the light betrayed a shifting silver-blue sheen glazed across its surface, as if it had been dipped in oil.

  Flinx shuddered, her eyes going wide. “Merciful goddesses,” she breathed. She looked up to meet Thyrian’s wary gaze. “How exactly did you come by this?”

  The prince’s troubled frown deepened. “Vylaena and I were following a lead, trying to track Serk down. When we confronted him, he used that”—he nodded toward the stone—“to incapacitate her.”

  Flinx spun around to face the Shadowheart, confusion—and a hint of fearful apprehension—blatant on her face. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s true,” Vylaena replied, her expression passive. “When I touched it, it . . . it snapped at me, like a feral dog. I felt like I’d been whipped. Except through me, not against my skin. Almost like when . . .” She fell silent, the shadow of a frown forming on her lips.

  Flinx shook her head. “But you . . . the only way you could possibly provoke a relic like this is if you bore traces of ether. You hadn’t just taken an etherial tonic, had you?”

  Vylaena’s jaw tightened.

  “You don’t think . . .” Thyrian mused, his eyes fixed on her.

  She didn’t meet his gaze; her eyes still rested on Flinx. “Have I ever mentioned,” Vylaena said slowly, the barest hint of dark humor threaded between her words, “that I was once ether-touched?”

  Alaric’s gaze slid to Flinx, who was blinking rapidly. “So when you said that you and Ikna have history . . .”

  Vylaena’s silence must’ve been answer enough, for Flinx nodded, taking a deep breath. “Well. That explains more than you know.” She returned her attention to the stone in her palm. “This,” she explained, “is called a soulstone.”

  “A soulstone?” Alaric repeated.

  “They’re . . . not common. They’re difficult to make.”

  “What does it do?” Vylaena asked.

  Thyrian glanced at her, disgust plain on his face. “The question is not so much what it does as what it is. Someone’s soul is trapped inside that piece of rock.”

  They all stared at the stone, stunned to silence.

  “Prince Thyrian’s right,” Flinx continued. “These relics are made by channeling ether through a person’s heart and into solid stone. Stone, of course, because it is a natural conduit for ether. The ritual kills the victim, chaining their essence into the stone. Sort of akin to how the Breaking Stone works, I’d suspect, Vylaena.”

  “I’d think a pocket watch would make a much more elegant accessory,” Alaric murmured. “But I suppose everyone has their tastes.”

  Vylaena seemed to be the only one without a look of pure revulsion on her face, just her usual detached ambivalence. “What are its uses?”

  “They guard against ether,” Flinx replied. “You see, the person’s essence inside the stone is stuck—it can’t return to the Ether, as it needs to in order to find peace. So when in the presence of ether—even the diluted version that floats around Aethryl—it reacts violently, trying desperately to reach it. These stones can deflect or even disable ether-forged objects, unraveling them as the trapped soul fights to crawl home. Luckily,” she added with a pensive frown, “the souls tend to succeed within a few months or so, despite their cages.”

  “They’re defensive relics,” Thyrian added in a grim tone, his eyes far away. “They can guard against ethershot, or other etherial weapons.”

  “Yes, that’s the idea,” Flinx replied with a nod. “And you can imagine what happens when one encounters an ether-touched—a person so deeply rooted to the Ether that they become indistinguishable to a relic like this. You’re lucky to have escaped unscathed, Vylaena.”

  But Vylaena was shaking her head. “I’m not ether-touched. My Mark has been gone for years.”

  “Maybe the physical Mark isn’t required,” Thyrian suggested. “Maybe just having had that kind of power in your past marks you in a similar way.”

  Flinx nodded in agreement. “It seemed there was enough ether left in you to provoke the stone, with or without a Mark.”

  “We’re missing the most important part of this,” Alaric said, glancing around at his companions. “Serk—or Lord Wroth—one of them has access to the power to make soulstones. Meaning an ether-touched. At a time when they’ve all vanished from Enserion.”

  The four were silent again, processing this. A dark unease settled into the room, blackening the air. Some dangerous game was being played, and it was as though they’d all been flung into the middle of it with only half the rules.

  “Well,” Alaric said finally, pushing off the desk and squaring his shoulders. Action, you need to take action. If his father was keen on ignoring the rising danger, he’d have to take it on himself. “If this Lord Wroth is as prominent a figure as he seems, there’s one place he’s likely to be found—if he’s in Enserion.”

  “And where is that?” Vylaena asked.

  “A royal banquet. Which is serendipitous, considering the party Father is throwing later this week.” A feeling of solid determination was forming in his gut, bolstered by the twinge of rightness coming from his Mark. “I think,” he continued, “it’s time I do my princely duty and mingle.”

  22 |
The Song

  Vylaena had never desired to be a long-term resident at a royal castle. Sure, she’d once snuck into the palace at Jivika for a night just to see what all the fuss was about. But she’d always preferred less ostentatious dwellings: a cloth tent pitched beneath the overhang of a seaside cliff; a sleepy, sun-filled countryside inn patrolled by a no-nonsense cat; her own crude but comfortable cottage in the shade of the Elderwood.

  There was a certain appeal, though, to living in a place as grand as the Cyair Palace. For it attracted more than gossip-toting courtiers and the jealous ire of the general populace—it attracted the best entertainers traveling Aethryl. And that included musicians.

  Vylaena could hear them, as she and the princes made their way across the lawns, returning from their meeting with Flinx at the library. There was a melody on the breeze, soft and agile, that pricked her ears and stole her attention.

  “What’s that?” she asked, craning her neck toward the sound. It seemed to be coming from one of the gardens.

  “Evening concert,” Alaric replied. “Courtiers will sometimes invite a musician to entertain a private party outdoors, when the weather is fair.” He eyed her, a coy grin seeping up one cheek. “Fortunately, I have a standing open invitation to all such functions. Princely perk. Want to go?”

  Goddesses, did she want to. Music had always been a weakness of hers—and one she didn’t really mind having. To actually be able to sit before a master musician and absorb the melody in full, instead of listening behind a cracked door or outside a crowded tavern common room . . .

  Goddesses. It would be wonderful.

  She was about to open her mouth to accept, but her mind finally caught up with her heart and froze her tongue. No. She couldn’t. Not while Thyrian observed her with that sensitive gaze of his, trying his best to figure out the secrets she kept locked deep inside her heart. Not while the gardens would be full of silk-adorned nobles who’d take one look at her and make her the new object of interest, ruining the musician’s performance and any hope she’d have of enjoying it. There was a reason she’d stuck to the shadows all her life.