Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  Ikna’s warning was not the first she’d heard of the ether-touched going missing. The Royal Ethersmith himself had been the latest high-profile disappearance; she’d heard about it on her last visit to Cyair. And with no Royal Ethersmith to tend to them, it was possible that the Etherway’s wards had begun to deteriorate.

  There were going to be a lot of bodies at that campsite. Ether might venture there, drawn by opportunity . . .

  Then it would not be one wight she’d be dealing with, but dozens.

  She had little choice. She would have to go to the clearing and see for herself: if the place was crawling with ether-addled monsters, she’d pack up and leave. It wasn’t worth the headache to put them all down. If not—if the ancient wards still held—she’d be safe to remain in her cottage, undisturbed.

  Vylaena belted her full dagger collection to various limbs and hiding places, habitually sliding a thin knife into each of her boots. It wasn’t common cutthroats or bandits that Vylaena prepared for, nor even the mercs that would be butchering that caravan tonight. At least they bled.

  No; it was the wild creatures of ether that were the real danger in this forest.

  Vylaena set out just after nightfall, quickly abandoning the forest road; she preferred to walk the game trails that crisscrossed the Elderwood’s gentle hills. It would save some time to take a straight route, even through the trees, rather than follow the lazy curve of ill-kept, man-made paths.

  The clearing her solicitor had mentioned was well known across the kingdom, within a day’s reach of Cyair for even the slowest of wagons—a lone traveler on horseback could make the trip in a few hours. The clearing was a popular spot for travelers to rest before continuing on the last leg of their journey into the capital of Enserion. Vylaena had not ventured in this direction for some time, but she knew the way well enough.

  Still, it was several hours before Vylaena arrived at the outskirts of the campsite, keeping to the shadows of the twisted trees. She tensed as she approached, the sudden existence of pain warning Vylaena she’d finally arrived: a point of sharpness beneath one rib, the jolting tang of a sliced muscle, a throbbing head. She breathed deeply, slowing her pace, accepting the hurts as her own. Whoever that man had finally hired to disrupt this caravan had left a few souls more mangled than dead.

  Or perhaps the mercs were still finishing the job . . .

  Vylaena soundlessly drew two daggers as she crept closer, masking her footsteps against she soft carpet of grass with well-practiced ease. She moved smoothly, a rippling shadow, eyes and ears open for hidden assailants. She hoped any mercs were long gone by now—off to collect the king’s bounty they’d been offered for this strange job. But she was careful, just in case.

  The trees ended abruptly, giving way to a flat, grassy field that languished beneath the swollen moon. The clearing looked more like a killing field than a campsite; dozens of bodies lay strewn across the cropped grass—horses and humans alike, eyes glassy and unseeing, flesh bloodstained and bruised. All victims of politics or feuding or whatever meaningless games men played to amuse themselves. What had it been this time, for these souls to have attracted such ire?

  Vylaena had lived through her share of nightmares, but she’d never seen so many bodies in one place. Her stomach tumbled as she took in the sight, and she gripped her daggers harder.

  This is what he’d asked of me, she thought. No; this is what he’d expected of her.

  She forced her hands to unclench. Well. She supposed her reputation was deserved. And she couldn’t change the past. No matter how much she wished to.

  Vylaena crept out of the trees and ducked behind a charred carriage, still smoldering from the fires that had scorched it. The axle was broken and it was tipped sideways, painted doors open, windows cracked—reduced to little more than a heap of kindling. It was the type of contraption the well-to-do used on long journeys, since ether-forged vehicles tended to be unstable at distance. And no one wanted to be stranded in these lands.

  The stabbing pain in Vylaena’s rib vanished, and she glanced over the sea of bodies, wondering which of the prone figures had finally found peace. It was senseless, all of this killing—she’d thought so even during the long years she’d played a part in it. But life, she’d discovered, offered very little to those who searched for sense.

  The throbbing in her head was still present—and a nuisance at that; she’d always hated headaches—drawing her attention toward the far north side of the clearing, where the bodies were the thickest and one wagon was still fully ablaze. Vylaena checked her surroundings once more, but sensed no movement—no curious ether, either, thank the goddesses—so she picked her way across the moonlit carnage toward it.

  The men in this area wore good leather armor and ring mail, and she saw more than one well-crafted sword lying in the grass. Guards, perhaps—hired to protect the caravan on its journey south.

  Didn’t do much good, did it?

  Vylaena had half a mind to pick up a few of the daggers she spotted, especially one with a pretty gold grip she might pawn off in town for a decent bit of lynd. But the headache kept her on course as she stepped over splayed limbs and sodden, darkened earth. What had these men been trying to protect? Besides their own lives, of course.

  She stopped beside one of the guards as her headache intensified. This one lay flat on the ground, half hidden beneath a fallen comrade, a smear of dark grime across one cheek. He lay perfectly still, his eyes closed, his sword lying forgotten at his side. Anyone else would assume he was dead, but she—she who could feel the head wound that had robbed him of consciousness—knew he was still very much alive.

  If Vylaena had been fresh from the caves of Aeswic, she might’ve slit his throat and completed the sloppy mercenary’s work. Her fingers twitched against her daggers at the thought. But she’d been walking these overground realms for far too long, and the journey had eroded the lessons of her upbringing.

  Besides, she thought, dropping to a crouch beside the man, he’s sun-crowned.

  She’d almost missed that small but very important detail, her view obscured by darkness and blood. But there, curving across his forehead like the delicate metalwork of an ornate golden circlet, was the Mark of Asta, the Goddess of Day.

  Every mercenary and assassin in Aethryl knew it was bad luck to kill someone Marked by a goddess. Perhaps that was why this man had been left alive—overlooked, to phrase it better. Vylaena was not in the mood to invite another goddess into her life, so she sheathed one of her daggers and turned her attention to dislodging the man from beneath his fellow soldier. At the very least, she told herself, I won’t let him suffocate.

  It took several hard shoves to roll the dead guard off the sun-crowned man, who—despite his newfound freedom—still did not stir. Vylaena frowned at him, her eyes flicking back to his brow.

  The sun-crowned were a novel sight in these parts; she’d met only two in her travels and knew of only a handful more in Enserion—by reputation mostly, spare one. It wasn’t that they were rare—the ether-touched were far fewer in number—but the sun-crowned warriors tended to find their way to Galiff and the Order of the Golden Aegis, while the sun-crowned scholars were drawn to places of learning and scholarship: the Cathedral of Eternal Light, libraries, universities, temples. Not some crude excuse for a kingdom, full of people who tore each other apart for turf and food and women.

  Vylaena adjusted her grip on her dagger and turned, an uneasy feeling souring her stomach. Moonlight still suffused the campsite in a halo of grey light, but that light was steadily fading. All around her, tendrils of opaque black ether unfurled from the trees. It stretched forth like some hundred-armed creature, hands reaching forward eagerly to brush against the fallen men. It was careful at first, sensitive to the Etherway just beyond the thin line of trees, but as Vylaena watched, dread weighing down her gut, it grew bolder, dancing over open eyes and skittering around pale lips . . .

  Vylaena whipped her head back to the unconscious su
n-crowned man, waving away a sinuous cloud of ether that was about to make an investigation of his ear canal. For a fleeting moment she wished she was ether-touched—that she had the power to command away the curious mist that crept across the campsite. But she smothered the thought before it could fully form.

  Already, it was becoming difficult to see the ground. In the short time she’d stopped to examine the sun-crowned man, a thick wave of ether had flooded the clearing.

  “Shit,” she murmured, gritting her teeth. She shoved her remaining dagger back in its sheath and pushed herself to standing, glancing at the sky to gauge which way was southwest. A hoarse gurgle, like someone was being strangled, sounded from behind her, but she didn’t turn. She knew what it meant.

  A wight waking. The first of many.

  She turned toward home, moving to step over a fallen guardsman, only to stop midstride as she remembered the sun-crowned man behind her.

  “Shit,” she spat again. She glanced over her shoulder to find him mostly buried in ether, with little more than his nose and the top of his chest peeking out.

  It would be easier to leave him. She only had a few days before the ether-animated corpses would find her cottage, and she wanted to make sure she was packed and away before then. She didn’t need a half-dead soldier weighing down her escape.

  The gurgling sound intensified, and Vylaena saw one of the fallen guards sit up, sending the ether around him into a roiling frenzy as he disturbed it. He swayed a bit, blinking in the light of the still-burning carriages, but didn’t seem to notice Vylaena. For now.

  She frowned at the sun-crowned man again. Would it be her fault if he was slaughtered by ether-addled wights? Would Asta blame her, for not stepping in and saving one of the goddess’s chosen, even though Vylaena was not the one who’d given him that head wound in the first place?

  She let out a hard breath. It wasn’t worth it to find out.

  Vylaena crouched once more, feeling through the film of ether to find the man’s sword. She shoved it through her belt and then heaved the man over her shoulder, grunting beneath his weight.

  I should be a professional gravedigger, for all the bodies I’ve been hauling around lately. Perhaps the city morgue is hiring.

  The sun-crowned man jerked against her hold—the first sign of life she’d seen from him—and then was still once more. Vylaena adjusted his weight, sweating beneath her burden, and then hesitated. What was her plan? To take him to her house and tend to him like some fairytale witch? She was no healer, nor did she have the time to wait for him to wake. She needed to get out of the forest, to the safety of city walls.

  The wight that had woken shook its head violently, and when it opened its eyes again, they burned a solid, sharp blue.

  It turned its head, fixing both eyes on Vylaena.

  Well. It didn’t matter whether or not the man woke. She’d get him out of this cursed campsite, and that was as much as the goddesses could possibly expect.

  She wasted no more time. Not waiting to see if the wight got up to follow, she turned southwest and shuffled out of the clearing as fast as her burden allowed.

  4 | The Shadowheart

  It wasn’t the unfamiliar feel of a linen-cased pillow that woke Thyrian from his heavy sleep, nor the woozy, ill feeling at his temples. He blinked up at the underbelly of a square, thatched roof, bleary-eyed and dazed. No—it was the smell of roasting apples and . . . was that cinnamon?

  His eyes went wide.

  Memories assaulted him: the snap of fire, men screaming, horses running wild, the metallic stench of blood. He thrashed against the cotton mattress, grasping for his sword. Where was he? Where were the others? Why did he smell rutting cinnamon?

  Thyrian glanced over the edge of a sleeping loft and instantly froze, his eyes locking on a strange woman in a sleeveless, black leather cuirass. She stared back at him from the main room below with eyes as grey and turbulent as a rainy sky.

  Immediately he assessed the possible threat. She didn’t appear armed, but he knew a well-trained fighter when he saw one. There was something dangerous about the way she stood, the way she held herself—as if she were prepared to spring at a moment’s notice. Even from the loft he could make out the definition in her biceps.

  And, goddesses above, her hair—blue as a midnight sky.

  Thyrian sat up slowly, never breaking the woman’s gaze, ignoring the throbbing echo that rocked his skull. “Where’s my sword?” he demanded.

  The woman’s eyes tightened, and though Thyrian could not determine the exact thoughts burning behind her shielded expression, he got the immediate impression that he’d annoyed her.

  She let out a hard breath, nodding toward the foot of the bed. “In the chest. Cleaned and everything. You’re welcome.”

  Thyrian watched as the woman moved to the nearby hearth, poking at the apples that roasted there. Even with her back turned, he felt little comfort in the presence of a Shadowheart. Her characteristic hair had been the first giveaway, but now he noticed the rows of silver earrings and the monotone tattoo that peeked over one shoulder, half covered by the straps of her cuirass. There was another at the back of her neck, partially obscured by stray azure hairs.

  He’d met a Shadowheart before, but that had been a long time ago. The man had been . . . odd. A brilliant warrior, and a good soldier to have beside you, but . . . odd. Always a little too eager to fight. Never accepting the healer’s ministrations after a skirmish. Uninterested in the conversations that cropped up around the nightly campfires.

  The Shadowheart’s entire culture revolved around pain and proving who was strong enough to master it. They were a secretive people, but Thyrian knew enough about them to understand their danger. He’d grown up with stories of their elite warrior-mercenaries, the Daigren, who were whispered to be the only people in Aethryl with enough skill to take on a sun-crowned warrior one-on-one . . .

  Thyrian pushed the thought away. He’d just have to be careful here.

  He reached over the foot of the narrow bed and lifted the lid of a simple wooden chest, fishing inside for the sword that had seen him safely through more than a decade with the Order of the Golden Aegis. The scabbard was missing—it had been one of his father’s castoffs, and something he hadn’t expected to mourn—but at least the blade was whole and gleaming. The woman had spoken truthfully; it was clean and well cared for.

  “The others,” Thyrian said carefully, noting that he still wore his bloodstained tunic and pants, his boots tossed carelessly beside the bed and his leather armor dumped in a pile near the front door. The woman obviously did not harbor the same tenderness of care toward men that she did toward steel. “Where are they?”

  The woman straightened, swiveling her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were so strange; it was like peering into a deep, creeping mist.

  If mist could stare right back at you, Thyrian thought, swallowing hard. The comparison was unnerving but accurate.

  The woman’s lips tightened. “With their goddesses in the Ether,” she answered. “Though most of their bodies were”—she paused, searching for the word—“appropriated soon after. I saw at least one wight waking and I’m likely to have a mass of them trampling my vegetables in a few days.” She frowned at him as though that was entirely his fault.

  “All of them? All dead?” Thyrian repeated, ignoring the ice in her gaze. His mouth went dry. By the Three. After all these weeks, to fall so close to their destination . . . they’d been but five leagues from Cyair!

  He’d have to notify their families. He’d have to . . . damn. Damn, damn, damn. What a waste. What a rutting nightmare. Thyrian gazed at the sword in his hands and scoured his memories for signs he’d missed; opportunities he’d squandered. He should have been able to do more. Should have been able to protect them. Why did he bear his Mark, if not to ensure things like this didn’t happen?

  “Rutting Ether,” the woman huffed, snapping a finger at him and sending his thoughts scattering. “If you’re going to
wallow in self-pity, do so outside of my house. It’s bad enough I had to drag you three leagues across the Elderwood and endure that incessant knot on your temple. I don’t need anything else.”

  Thyrian stiffened. He’d forgotten that the Shadowheart felt others’ pain as their own. Cursed, people said. Cursed by the goddess Ikna for some long-forgotten infraction—though rampant speculation of the details had likely caused more damage to the Shadowheart than the Curse itself. He wasn’t particularly enamored with them as a whole, though not out of superstition. It was just hard to respect those who killed solely for coin and prestige, with no remorse for their actions.

  The woman’s brow wrinkled; her odd eyes narrowed on his chest, as though sensing something hidden beneath his tunic. “It was you. The one all those men died for. They were protecting you. That’s why they were all clustered around your body.”

  Thyrian didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. The woman could feel his anguish—she knew his guilt.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her eyes lifting to his face. “And why did someone offer me six thousand lynd to kill you and everyone in your party?”

  “What?” Thyrian sprung to his feet, but his vision exploded into colored spots and he was forced to sit down again. He clutched his blade with white-knuckled force. “Six thousand lynd? Who?”

  The Shadowheart woman cocked her head to the side, searching for something in his face. There was tension in her lips, the slight frown of a woman who didn’t often give voice to her thoughts.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally. “A man. Looked Iedan but wore the clothes of a wealthy Cyairian. Does business with Skin.”

  “Skin . . .?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re highborn—the proper kind. Or else you’re not from Enserion.”

  Thyrian didn’t answer this; instead he ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his palm raked across the tender lump on his skull. Realization, cold and horrible, crept up his spine. “The job was offered to you? You didn’t . . .”