Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  The man lunged and Thyrian parried, their weapons clashing together in a horrendous, echoing clatter. Thyrian thanked the goddesses he’d been sparring Vylaena, for her fighting style was similar. Swift. Surprising. Always looking for a way past his guard, always prodding for weaknesses. Like a river, seeking holes in a dam. And if they were ever found...

  Well. He wouldn’t let it get that far.

  They twisted and sidestepped, the assassin clicking a beat for their dancing blades. But not even the best assassin in Aethryl could best a goddess’ chosen. Thyrian lashed out, catching the man across the chest, and the man crumpled beneath the blow. A swift follow-up strike in the heart silenced the man’s tongue forever.

  Breathing hard, Thyrian lowered his sword and eyed the stairs beyond. He had no time for this. If the assassins could see him, then the shield was useless until he reached Eyren. He heaved the thing over his shoulder and lashed it across his back. Raising his sword with two hands this time, he sprinted down the stairs and into the waiting maw of darkness.

  36 | The Impossible

  Alaric and Flinx arrived at the king’s door only to be barred from entering. “Your father has been unwell all day,” said Gevryn, the King’s Chamberlain, with a delicate sniff. “He must be allowed to rest.”

  “This is urgent,” Alaric replied, straightening his shoulders. “I must see him.”

  “Alaric, I understand that—”

  “Gevryn,” Alaric pressed, his tone solidifying into something so like his father’s stubborn drawl he almost clamped a hand over his mouth, “I deeply respect your dutiful service to my father, and I thank you for it. But I bring urgent news that must be delivered to the king without delay, and will not stand to be swept aside like a bothersome gnat. If you do not open these doors, I will be forced to remove you from this post for obstructing business of the state.”

  The chamberlain’s mouth dropped open and he sputtered a moment, then took a deep breath. “Of course, my prince. Just... be quick. I worry about your father’s health.”

  Alaric frowned as Gevryn opened the door to King Arnyel’s suite. This was the first he’d heard of his father being ill, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had merely forgotten to inform him. He hoped it wasn’t as serious as the chamberlain made it sound.

  They stepped into a giant sitting room, which Alaric ignored. Instead, he took Flinx’s hand and led her swiftly down a series of corridors to an ample set of mahogany doors.

  “I don’t see how I’ll be of much help,” Flinx whispered as Alaric stopped just before opening them, hesitant to move forward.

  “I’ll take all the support I can get around Father,” Alaric replied. “You’re an intelligent woman. Perhaps you can think of a way to persuade him that I haven’t yet. Or at the very least, it’ll be two-against-one when he tries to kill me for what I’m about to say to him.”

  And before he could get cold feet, Alaric raised a hand and rapped soundly on the doors. After a moment, he nodded to Flinx and pushed through.

  Well. Here we go.

  King Arnyel was in bed but not asleep—or at least not any longer. He lay propped up against a veritable mountain of silk pillows, tucked beneath plush sheets at the center of a giant, four-poster bed.

  Two oil lamps glowed a soft orange at either side of the bed, resting atop carved tables strewn with gold nicknacks and the remnants of a dinner tray. A fireplace so large it could swallow Alaric’s entire bathtub stood opposite the bed, ablaze with golden light.

  “Alaric?” the king said, blinking at him. His tone was soft; so unlike the confident, stubborn man Alaric knew.

  He truly was ill.

  Alaric approached the bed with alacrity, Flinx still in tow. He dropped her hand once they reached the king, but he saw his father’s eyes dart to the connection for a brief moment before rising again.

  “Apologies for disturbing you, Father, but I bring urgent news. This is Librarian Flinx of the Royal Library—she’s assisting me in a matter of grave importance.”

  “Not more nonsense about the cursed Desert tribes, is it?”

  Alaric’s stomach twisted in anger, but he forced himself to remain calm. “No. Something much more pressing.”

  The king pushed himself higher on his pillows, a cautious look overtaking his features. “What, then?”

  And Alaric told him. Everything. About the Breaking Stone, about Eyren, about Kaern. About the missing ether-touched and the ritual that was to be performed within the hour.

  The king listened. For once, he simply stared at Alaric and gave him his full attention. He did not interject or scoff or wave him away. And for the first time, Alaric noticed how deep the lines at his brow had become, and how his hair had more grey in it than gold.

  When he was done, the king ran a hand over his face and let out a hard breath. “How can you believe something so outlandish, Alaric? My advisors have not so much as hinted at this plot.”

  “Your advisory council is made up of a handful of dukes with no stake in the welfare of Enserion other than how to make their own provinces the most dominant and their own coffers the most full,” Alaric said in the hard tone that normally got him into trouble. But he didn’t care—he wasn’t going to allow his father to ignore him. Not this time. “When you rely solely on the word of men who would tell you anything—anything, Father—in order to protect their own interests, you put at risk everyone who looks to you for leadership. And you blind yourself to what’s truly going on behind your back.”

  “You have no right to speak to me so disrespectfully,” the king growled, his face reddening. “You have no idea what it’s like to rule—the sacrifices that must be endured, the hard decisions that must be made...”

  Alaric let out an incredulous laugh. “Rule. Is that what you call it? Sitting idly by while your people go uneducated, unemployed, and underfed? Listening to your precious council feed you lies of prosperity and security—and not questioning them, not seeking out your own truths, because this way you never have to lift a finger and deal with the actual problems that plague this kingdom?”

  “Enough,” the king barked, though he shrank back into his pillows. “That’s enough, Alaric.”

  “It is certainly not enough,” Alaric spat, taking a step closer to his father’s bed. “It’s high time someone held you accountable. It’s high time you listened for once. And you did once listen, didn’t you? When Mother was alive, you used to be open to—”

  “Don’t you dare,” the king snapped.

  “You listened to her,” Alaric pressed, unwilling to stand down. “She was a wise woman, and you heeded her advice. Why do you not offer me, your own son, the same courtesy? Why?”

  King Arnyel was silent for a long time, the light from the fireplace throwing dancing shadows across his lined face. Alaric’s pulse pounded in his ears, his anger and determination slow to fade from his bloodstream. He shook with emotion, fists clenched and shoulders square, both proud and terrified at standing his ground. His father needed to understand—he needed to see the danger for once, and act.

  “I must have control of the Royal Guard, Father,” Alaric said in a quieter—though no less steely—tone. “Only for tonight. So that we can stop Eyren and keep him from wrenching control of Ikna’s power.”

  The raw fury on the king’s face slowly melted away, and Alaric watched him sink deeper into his pillows, weariness tugging down his eyelids. He lay there for a long moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply, and when he finally reopened them, Alaric saw the silver glint of a tear on his cheek.

  “This is how you see me, is it?”

  Alaric blinked. The fatigued hopelessness in his father’s voice cut through his remaining anger and scattered it into dust.

  “I am the old man stuck in his ways, blind to reason.” He lifted his eyes to meet Alaric’s. “After your mother died, it’s true. I... I lost more than a wife that day. I lost the will to care. It seemed so useless, to continue on in a world where she no lon
ger existed.”

  Alaric softened. “Father, I—”

  “Allow me to say my piece,” the king continued. “Each day, each year hurt. I drowned them out in a mindless pursuit of distraction, trusting that my advisors would not allow Enserion to fall into chaos. Perhaps I leaned on them a little too much, yes. And when the pain finally eased enough for me to look at the world without only seeing the hole she left, it was just easier to continue on in much the same manner.”

  The king regarded Alaric with glassy eyes, the firelight softening the cool blue of his irises. “I never wanted to hurt Enserion, or you,” he added. “I did believe my advisors capable and trustworthy—I still do, despite your claims. You do not know all the problems we’ve worked out together, all the day-to-day tasks they aid me with to keep this kingdom functioning. I have... I have seen them do things that struck me as self-serving. I always thought it fair compensation for their great service to me, and looked the other way. I should not have.”

  “You could have allowed me to help,” Alaric spoke. “I wanted desperately to be a part of running this Kingdom, but you always pushed me away. I wanted the opportunity to grow, as you were allowed, into the station I was born to take one day. Why didn’t you allow me that chance?”

  The king shook his head. “You’re right. I just... you’ve always reminded me so much of your mother. I know that’s a sorry excuse. But to hear you spouting ideas, and to watch you push me—just as your mother did—it was too much. It was just too much.”

  He ran a hand over his face, agitated. “But I ignored you for too long, and look where we are. I’ve pushed my youngest son right into this foolishness.”

  “We can stop him—save him,” Alaric said. “I just need you to listen to me for once. Give me control of the Guard. Allow me to help.”

  The king sighed again, but a shadow of a smile crept over his lips. “You’ve always been a bright boy, Alaric. If I’ve left you with an inheritance of misery and rubble, I hope your cleverness is strong enough to carry you—and Enserion—through it.”

  Alaric watched as the king leaned over the far bedside table, fetching a quill and parchment. He scribbled a note and then motioned toward the far corner of the room, where a small, neat writing desk stood. “Fetch me that sealing wax.”

  It was Flinx who obliged; by the time Alaric had turned around she was already at the desk, wax and sealing ring in hand. She brought the items to Alaric’s father with a deep, reverent curtsey.

  “Don’t see many Estryns around here,” the king said, his eyes flicking over Flinx’s face. “You’re quite pretty for a librarian.”

  “And I was also first in my class, Your Highness,” Flinx replied, holding his gaze with an even stare. Alaric grinned at her quiet defiance. Yes, Father, he thought, she really is so much more than a beautiful face.

  The king fixed her in a quiet smile. “My wife used to spend many a long afternoon at the library,” he said, his voice low. “She always said the smell of parchment was much more inviting to her than the flowers of the gardens. I might never have understood the infatuation, but I loved her for it all the same.”

  Flinx’s face softened.

  The king wrestled with the sealing wax for a moment and then turned, handing Alaric a paper stamped with his personal seal. “For Lieutenant Jyron,” he explained, “handing you full control of the Royal Guard. With no expiration.”

  Alaric stared at his father, wide-eyed and shocked. The king had never so much as given him control over the breakfast menu. No expiration—that was so deeply unexpected that Alaric could barely speak.

  “Why?” he asked, blinking at the king.

  “Because it’s time I trusted my son. And because I’m not getting younger. I need to learn to let go, and allow you to grow into your rightful place.”

  Alaric tucked the parchment into his pocket. “I will stop Eyren, Father. I promise.” He turned to Flinx, who regarded him with wide eyes. “We shouldn’t waste any time,” he said to her. She nodded, and they made their way back to the bedroom doors.

  “Please,” Alaric heard his father murmur as they retreated into the hall, “if you can, bring him back safely. Don’t hurt my boy.”

  The door swung closed behind them, and Alaric felt it ram against his heart.

  ✽✽✽

  Thyrian crouched behind a pile of fallen stone and peered over the edge of an outcrop. He was sweaty and sore, but had left the twisting caverns of Keening House behind and now stood at the precipice of a drop-off, where a set of narrow stairs inlaid into the larger cavern wall led down to an open space bigger than the sparring field of Cyair Palace.

  On the opposite side of the cavern, he could see a tall, wavy crack—like a curl of smoke—in the solid rock, its edges painted in metallic shades reminiscent of the Mercurial Gate. A single, ornate etherlamp in the shape of one of Ikna’s sacred Wolves, stood sentinel over the topmost point. If the Breaking Stone was anywhere in this place, it would be beyond that crack.

  The problem was, twenty men stood in between Thyrian and the door.

  He’d spotted them the moment he’d entered the cavern, some holding flaming torches of a hot orange light so at odds with the etherlamp behind them. They were well-armed and well-protected, in good leather armor and ring mail, hands on the hilts of undrawn swords, talking amongst themselves in a rough semicircle around the Wolf-guarded crack. Barring his way forward.

  Thyrian ducked back down and grit his teeth. There was no way around that he could see. And he was losing time. How long had it taken him to get this far? Forty minutes? Fifty? Goddesses. He just didn’t have the time to find another way.

  He knew, with an uncomfortable twist in his gut, that he would have to fight. The crack was too narrow for his shield, so he’d never be able to sneak inside. But fighting—at least he had a chance. A small, unlikely, abysmal chance.

  Twenty men. He’d never taken on that many alone. Five, definitely. Eight, maybe. But not twenty. Twenty was suicide. Even for him.

  He wiped his brow with a grimy forearm and took a long breath. What choice did he have? He couldn’t just turn back and let Eyren go through with this madness. He’d never be able to forgive himself for not trying.

  Thyrian closed his eyes, allowing his mind to shut down.

  He allowed instinct and training to carry him forward, trusting his muscles and the divine warmth that flooded his body. Shield held high, he descended the stairs in absolute silence, not stopping until he had crossed the cavern and stood directly beside the first guardsman.

  He lowered his shield and struck.

  The man cried out, a look of horror splaying across his face as Thyrian plunged his blade deep into the man’s side.

  Shield up.

  Two guardsmen nearby had seen him, but the others scattered around the cavern merely looked up with the muted interest of bystanders.

  Shield down.

  Thyrian swiftly incapacitated another man, narrowly sidestepping a third’s sword as he raised his shield once more.

  The cavern echoed with frenzied shouts and barked orders as the guards began to understand the danger they were in. Thyrian spun away, watching the men regroup. He picked his next target.

  Shield down.

  This time, his quarry was ready. Steel clashed against steel as the guard parried Thyrian’s death-blow, and Thyrian blocked another slash with his raised shield.

  “Here! Just swing here!”

  Thyrian dropped low and sidestepped the crowd of swordsmen, retreating as best he could without colliding with anyone.

  Shield down.

  Another man’s cries shattered the air, and Thyrian felt the front of his tunic go wet. Slipping away again, he narrowly avoided a guardsman’s errant swing, which clipped his comrade instead.

  It was madness. Chaos. The guardsmen held their swords high, whirling on their heels to combat their invisible foe, completely ignoring those who had fallen.

  Thyrian struck. Again and again he lowere
d his shield, slipping in an attack when he could and striking armor just as often as flesh.

  Shield down.

  A man to Thyrian’s left spotted him, and he had to choose between parrying the blow or...

  A guard on Thyrian’s right struck out, and Thyrian lashed out with his shield arm, releasing the metal disc from his grip. It struck the first guard in the neck, knocking him backward—

  —and at the same time, he blocked the second guard’s attack with his blade.

  His shield gone, he gripped his sword with two hands, ignoring the sweat that ran down his brow.

  Step—cling!

  Men poured in around him. Thyrian ducked, parried, slashed. Gold light flickered from his knuckles as he killed another guard.

  He felt pain—soft, far away, at his thigh. Ignored it.

  Instead he sunk deep within himself, allowing all fear and apprehension and dread evaporate. Time seemed to slow around him as he searched his body for any hidden strength that might be of use in this desperate hour: the surety of his loyalty to Galiff; the undying familial bonds he had to his parents and his siblings; the surprising and genuine connection of friendship with Alaric; the rapport he seemed to have built with Vylaena, that she didn’t appear to share with anyone else . . .

  But most of all, he felt out every shining gold thread wrapped around each muscle, bone, and vein. His physical strength, his dexterity, his determination, his dedication to justice: he gathered them together and pulled them close, arming himself from the inside with plates of molten gold—with all the gifts he’d been bestowed as a bearer of Asta’s Mark.

  When he opened his eyes, he was glowing. It was soft but visible, like the first beams of sun stretching over the newborn sky. Pale gold light glinted from him, as if his skin and clothes were brushed with metal.

  It was as if he’d been reborn; energy flooded his flesh anew.

  He became nothing more than a body—a body full of light—that swung and blocked and roared and bled. He was fury and justice and determination, a force that would not be stopped by mortal men. Not while his body was guided by a power older than this world. And not while the image of Vylaena, chained in some darkened cavern and forced to create another weapon against her will, burned furiously at the front of his mind.